Reputation (Mason Family 2)

I’ve seen that. The relief on her beautiful but stressed face when I told her I was diving her and her dad to the doctor’s appointment. She hadn’t asked anything of me, but I showed her that I loved her by my action.

“There’s no excuse in the world for you not to figure this out. And if you don’t figure it out soon, man, you might run out of time,” Holt says.

“I just need to get through tomorrow.”

“Okay. Do what you have to do. I need to go crawl in bed with my girl.”

I groan. “Rub it in.”

“I fully intend on doing just that.”

I make a face and laugh despite my mood.

“Call me tomorrow,” Holt says. “And don’t listen to Boone. Period. He might’ve been good for advice once, but that’s his one-and-done.”

My laugh is loud this time. “Don’t I know that.”

“Later, Coy.”

“Bye.”

I sit back on the couch again and close my eyes.

God, let me figure this out. Please.

But when I open my eyes, everything is the same.

Twenty-Five

Bellamy

Lauren: I still have a puker. Bree wants Coy to know that she’s been watching videos on throwing curveballs.

I force a swallow.

Me: I’ll tell him. I hope she gets better.

Lauren: Me too. There’s a reason I’m not a nurse.

I blow out a breath and look up at the sky. The sun is warm on my face despite the chill in the air. I read online that getting enough Vitamin D and sunshine was supposed to help chase the blues away.

Let’s pray that works.

I straighten my sweatshirt and fill my lungs with the crisp air.

You will get through this day. And then tomorrow. And then the next day. Look at all of the days you’ve made it through when you thought you couldn’t.

I got up and took a shower. I made my bed. I fried an egg and toasted bread, and then I poured myself a cup of coffee.

I took out the trash and wiped the kitchen counters. Then I made sure Dad’s nurse came and he had his medicines. Then I came home, sat at the table, and had the one cry I’m allowing myself today.

Routine helps. The one foot in front of the other mantra is solid.

My personal care routine when facing adversity is just to keep going. Eventually, you can look back and see how far you came.

This time, when I look back, I’ll see Coy.

“Nope,” I tell myself. “We are going forward.”

I walk across the yard and into my dad’s house. Game shows play in the living room. I grab a pear out of the basket on the table on my way through the kitchen. I’m not hungry, but I can fiddle with it.

“Hey,” I say as I round the corner. “How are you today?”

Dad looks rested. His skin is warmer, and his eyes less gaunt.

“Not bad,” he says. “My nurse was here and helped me get a bath. She ran to the store for me.” He takes me in. “How are you?”

“Eh.”

I sit on the love seat and sigh.

“Why does this show look like it was taped in the seventies?” I ask.

“Because it was.”

“Oh.” I watch the host that is obviously wearing a toupee bop around the screen with a fake smile. “Do you think these things are rigged?”

“Probably. Isn’t everything? If you’re going to turn it on, you just have to suspend belief.”

“That’s what you have to do in life, too,” I mumble before I can catch myself.

Dad grabs the remote and mutes the television.

“What’s going on, Bellamy?”

I toss the pear from one hand to the other. “Nothing. Coy went to Nashville this morning.”

“When is he coming back?”

I shrug. “If we were on a game show, that would be a great million-dollar question.”

Dad doesn’t laugh.

“Hey, that was funny,” I say, even though I’m not laughing either.

Even though it’s not funny at all.

He waits to see if I explain what’s going on—because something clearly is going on. I shrug instead and look at him blankly.

I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.

“Want me to see if I can bake these pears?” I ask him, tossing the one in my hand up in the air again. “You can put brown sugar or honey or something on them—and cinnamon, I think. Saw it on a cooking show.”

“Bellamy, please. Stop it.”

“Stop what?” I take in his raised brow. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

He rocks back and forth in his chair, trying to get every last discernible morsel of information out of me without having to poke.

Finally, he speaks.

“He will come back,” he says simply.

“Probably for the next holiday.”

Dad keeps rocking. “Probably for you.”

I squeeze the pear. “Only if he’s stupid.”

“Bellamy!”

“What?”

Dad huffs. “I didn’t raise you to be like this.”

“Like what? Realistic?”

“No. Pessimistic.” He shakes his head. “Do you not have any faith in Coy?”

I blow out a breath. “Are you siding with the enemy again?”