The Girlfriend (The Boss 2)

“Yes, you’ve had some very good ideas on that front,” he admitted. “I just thought you might want to stay the night with me.”

“Do you want me to?” I’d spent the last three nights with him, sleeping in the horrible easy chair beside the bed. My spine almost jumped out of my body and made a run for it at the thought of doing it again.

“No, you go on.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. He wanted me to stay, I could tell. In a way, I wanted to stay, too. Because I was becoming acutely aware of how serious this whole process actually was.

But my therapist was also fond of reminding me that I couldn’t change Neil’s health by sitting and staring at him, as I had been kind of prone to do through the induction chemo. Going home wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

When the driver dropped me off at home, Holli was already there waiting for me, lounging on the couch in Neil’s den like she lived here now. Emma was with her, and they were watching some vampire show on Netflix.

“Hey, girlie!” Holli greeted me. “Are we going to do this thing?”

I’d asked her to be my model for the scarf video. I figured it would be easier than trying to keep my head in the frame while tying and talking at the same time. “Yeah. Oh, Emma?”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“Your dad was still having trouble eating, so they put a tube down to feed him. It looks absolutely horrific, but I have been assured it’s totally normal and a lot of people have to have them.” I tried to keep my tone light, ignoring the nightmare fact that my boyfriend was so ill he needed to be force fed like a foie gras goose. “I just didn’t want it to be a shock when you go in tomorrow.”

“Yikes. Should I call him?” she asked, sitting up.

“I’m sure it couldn’t hurt. He seemed a little lonely about me leaving.”

“He can’t expect you to stay at the hospital all the time,” she said. I was relieved to hear her say it. The fact that she could forgive me for leaving Neil’s side, when I couldn’t entirely forgive myself, made me feel much better.

Holli and I went to the library, so Emma could make her phone call. I hoped Neil was awake, so she could talk to him. I felt as though she was sometimes, unfairly to herself, stepping back to give me more time with her father.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” I whispered to Holli as I set up the camera.

She was pulling her blonde hair back into a low ponytail. “I think it was a good thing that you did. I know that if I saw my dad with a tube coming out of his nose, I would fucking freak.”

“Yeah.” I frowned. The battery pack was getting low. “Hang on. Let me go get the cord.”

I dashed up the stairs to the bedroom, and heard Emma’s voice inside. “Okay, Daddy. I love you, too. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She was in the closet. Weird.

I was about to turn around and head back downstairs— it wasn’t like I was going to open the toy cabinet to get the camera cord when she was right there— but then I heard a hiccup and a sniffle, and I realized why she was in there.

Oh, Scaife. You idiot.

I went to the door and pushed it open, and there was Emma, sitting on the floor of the dressing room, holding one of Neil’s sweaters, crying. She looked up and guiltily swiped her eyes, then dropped her gaze to the sweater in her hands.

“I was cold,” she said by way of explanation.

I wasn’t buying it. I went to her and sat down beside her, leaning my back against the built-in cedar drawers. “I put one of his dirty t-shirts from the hamper on his pillow and snuggled it.”

She laughed through her tears. “Sophie, that’s truly pathetic.”

“As pathetic as cuddling a sweater on the floor of your dad’s closet?” I said it in jest, but her face fell, and I hurried to add, “I’m not making fun of you. I think it’s good that you’re showing emotion over this.”

“I’m not very comfortable with showing my emotions,” she admitted. “I don’t like getting all cuddly and touchy-feely over things I can’t change, anyway. It wastes energy that could be used more constructively.”

“That kind of sounds like something you’ve talked yourself into, instead of something you really believe. And besides, crying does do something constructive. It releases pressure.” My therapist had told me that, when I’d expressed similar concerns about my inadequacy and cry-baby ways.

Oh, fuck it. I put my arm around Emma’s shoulders. “It’s okay to cry about this. I cry all the time.”