I’m about to tell him to stop being such a smart-ass when it hits me what he’sactuallydoing. He’s not trying to be funny; he’s keeping me distracted to make me feel better. Or, at least, less bad.
And it’s working.
I look down. Our hands are still connected. He notices, too, but makes no effort to pull away. And me in my weakened state, it’d be a workplace safety issue if I let go.
So I don’t.
We stand there, holding hands, staring at each other until a truck roars up the driveway and brakes with a deafening screech.
“How are you really feeling?” Maverick asks.
“Better. But man, that’s the last time I’m eating sush—oh, shit.” I catch my breath.
“What?”
“My grandfather. He made the sushi. Heatethe same sushi I did.” Maverick grabs my hand and drags me away. “No. Stop. I have to go check on him.”
He dangles a set of car keys over his shoulder. “Where do you think we’re going?”
8
Maverick
This has got to be some sort of sick, fucked-up cosmic joke.
I’m sitting in Clancy Ford’s living room, in the exact spot I’ve sat in a number of times over the past several months, while Jackson is helping his grandfather throw up the last of their ill-fated lunch in the bathroom.
Seems he isn’t the only one who’s not so great at being sick. When Clancy opened the door, he was sweating profusely, and his face was sheet-white. He doesn’t strike me as the type to ask for help, but boy, did he look relieved to see us.
I sink deeper into the couch and scrub a hand down my face, trying to make sense of everything. It’s not that Clancy owed me an explanation, but why didn’t he tell me Jackson was his grandson when he knew I’d bought the rescue center?
And what about Jackson? Why didn’t he mention the connection either? It’s a pretty big thing to omit.
I push to my feet, stride over to the bookcase, and inspect a photo I’ve noticed a few times during my visits but have never had the chance to look at more closely until now. A black-haired toddler perched atop a horse, grinning big, holding on to the reins with both tiny hands. No fear. No trepidation. Just pure trust and joy radiating off little Jackson.
I put the photo back in its place and take in the modest living room. There’s a small plaid couch, two mismatched chairs, a wooden coffee table, and a rust-specked copper wall clock hanging by the window.
I hate to even think it, but I hope that neither of them felt bad or embarrassed by this. I would never judge a person by how much money they have or don’t have. I know it happens. I’veseenit happen. But I would never think less of someone just because they’re not as wealthy as my family claims to be. Thatsort of stuff doesn’t matter to me. And from what I’ve gotten to know of Clancy these past few months, I didn’t think it mattered to him either.
I found his name inscribed on the back of some photos of my grandparents with him when I was going through their old boxes. I tracked Clancy down through the local Facebook page, messaged him to make sure he was indeed the same Clancy, and he invited me over. I showed him the photos, and he teared up. I never realized Grandpa Rick knew Clancy, let alone that they were such good friends.
I’ve stopped by to see him a few times since that first visit. I like the guy. He’s funny. Tells a great story. And he always makes sure I leave with plenty of apricots, which I gladly accept so I have something to fight back with when Wagner accuses me of feeding Sammy nothing but shit. In all the times I’ve come by, he’s never given even the slightest indication he’s embarrassed by his modest home.
And Jackson isn’t the kind of person who gives a shit what anyone thinks, least of all me, so I’m back to where I started: clueless as to why neither one of them thought to bring it up.
Jackson appears and sags against the wall. “If what I subjected you to was half as gross as that, I am truly sorry.”
I smile sympathetically. “How is he?”
“Better. He’s brushing his teeth now.” Jackson takes an awkward step toward me, then stops, turns away, and runs a hand through his messy locks. “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t tell you Clancy is my grandfather.”
“Didn’t even cross my mind.” One black eyebrow lifts, like he can see right through me. “I am curious as to why you call your grandfather by his first name, though.”
“He insists. SaysGrandpamakes him sound older than he looks.”
“Ah, vanity. I can respect that.”
Jackson’s lips twist like they’re about to smile, then quickly flatten into a thin line. “It was my idea not to say anything. Clancy wanted to.”
