I had no idea what mood I was going to find Texas in, but if she thought I was going to put up with her crap just because other people felt sorry for her, she was gravely mistaken.

I shuffled back to the Ducati, which was parked on the other side of the mall, hidden away from the throng who got in through the main entrance. I’d learned early on that Christina attracted star-fuckers and high school kids who wanted to hop on her and take pictures.

Christina was my one and only indulgence. I’d chucked her out as an expense, seeing as I played the role of someone who had their shit together. I couldn’t afford having people dig into who my family was, get dirt about my life, find out I was as broke as a stick horse. So I pretended to be someone else.

Someone to fear.

Someone who had a sick ride and a sinister taste for fighting.

Ironically, pretending to be someone I wasn’t only made me even more tired of living than I already was.

As I ambled to my bike, I heard rustling coming from the bushes behind me. I stopped, twisting my head. The rustling stopped. I turned back to Christina.

The swooshing resumed.

It sounded like people were whisper-shouting behind the scrubs.

I turned around fully now, cocking an eyebrow.

“If you’ve got something to say, come and fucking say it. See if you have any teeth left by the end of your speech.”

Silence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Deciding it wasn’t my job to coax whoever waited for me in the bushes for another brawl, I got on my bike and drove off.

Once I got home, I crawled into my room and collapsed on my bed without taking a shower. I lifted my pillow, plucked a picture from under it and kissed it, rubbing my thumb over the person imprinted on it.

“Night, A. Sleep tight.” I pressed a kiss to the photo.

I tucked the picture back under my pillow, hating that I was still breathing, living, fighting, fucking.

She didn’t answer.

She never did.

Grace

“Dear Lord, just because I’m clumsy, that don’t mean I have the Alzheimer’s.” Grams dangled her feet in the air, perched on the hospital bed. She moped like a punished child, glowering at the doctor like she was the one who needed to get her head checked.

The doctor who saw her, a middle-aged woman with cropped chestnut hair and a nose stud, scribbled something on her clipboard, frowning at the chart in front of her.

“No one is trying to suggest that, Mrs. Shaw. But since you’re already here, and your granddaughter indicated you’ve missed your last two appointments, I think a quick CT scan can’t hurt. We’ll be able to get the results faster than if you book them later on.”

“You’re hollering down the well, Doc.” Grams shook her head, her sweet Southern drawl taking a sharp edge. She glared between the two of us, narrowing her eyes with open suspicion. “I ain’t doin’ it. I burned my hand on the stove. It’s a common mistake anyone could make. Y’all can treat me like an invalid, but that plan ain’t gonna work. There’s nothing wrong with my head. Nothing!” She knocked on her temple with her fist, as if this was solid proof she was in the clear.

The doctor and I exchanged looks. There was so much I wanted to say to Dr. Diffie. Things that would prove Grams exhibited advanced signs of Alzheimer’s. But Grandma Savvy didn’t allow for a CT, and I couldn’t force her.

It didn’t matter that Grams had burned her hand touching the hot stove—not for a fraction of a second, but for at least half a minute—until I burst into the kitchen, smelling the all-too familiar scent of burnt skin, realized what she was doing, and pulled her out of there, kicking and screaming.

It also didn’t matter that her palm was now charred, red, and swollen, her skin peeling and blistering under the bandages.

And it definitely didn’t matter that Grams blanked out on the night with West at the diner, and when I brought it up the next morning, she thought I was making up an imaginary boyfriend.

“You are a fine, smart girl, Gracie-Mae,” she’d told me, giving my cheek a pinch and a shake. “You ought to find a boy eventually. You don’t have to make one up.”

Marla told me she’d been hearing Grams crying in her room when I wasn’t home. That things were getting unbearably bad. I felt so out of my depth, I wished I could tell Dr. Diffie the entire story and beg her to tell me what to do.

Instead, I checked the time on my phone. It was close to nine. I was going to be late for my shift on farmers’ market day. Crap. I’d texted Marla, asking her to take over in the ER, but also called Karlie and requested West’s number.

Grace: It’s Grace. I’ll probably be twenty minutes late and won’t make it to prep. I’ll make it up to you. Sorry.

He didn’t answer.

But of course he didn’t.

He was a crass, rude son of a gun.

Although, you did ask him to treat you as horribly as everyone else, after he helped you out and even called you his friend repeatedly.

Never mind that. I knew I’d done the right thing. West and I weren’t friends. He pitied me, and getting close to him was a terrible idea. This was for the best.

The only thing was, I wished he hadn’t known how crappy my family life was, on top of having seen that ugly scar.

Marla rushed into the hospital room ten minutes later. Tufts of her bottle-blonde hair were still in rollers, hanging on her head like window washers on skyscrapers. She looked exhausted. I couldn’t blame her. Grams had been deteriorating throughout Marla’s two-year employment at a rapid speed. Marla was approaching her mid-sixties herself and hadn’t signed up to assist women with special needs.

I jumped up from the bed opposite Grams and threw myself at the caregiver.

“Thank God you’re here.”

“Came as soon as I could, honey pie. What’d the old bat do now?”

“I can hear you!” Grandma Savvy shook her fist at Marla.

“I found her pressin’ her hand to the blazing hot stove this morning. I had to pry her out of the kitchen kickin’ and screamin’. She won’t agree to a CT now.” I dropped my voice to a whisper, staring at the floor, “What do I do, Marl?”

“Why, I think we both know the answer to that question,” Marla said softly, squeezing my arm. She and Karlie had been trying to hammer it into my brain that Grams needed to go to a home. I’d thought if I made an effort, I’d be able to maintain her quality of life without sending her away.

She deserved to spend the remainder of her life in the house she’d built with Grandpa Freddie, where she’d raised Courtney and me. In the town she grew up in.

“I’ll take over from here. You go work.” Marla slid a Styrofoam coffee cup into my hand.

I nodded, taking a sip and saluting the cup in her direction. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Prolly the same thing you’re doing now, but much less efficiently. Now go.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I parked the pickup by my house and sprinted down the road toward the food truck.

By the time I got to work, a film of sweat made my clothes cling to my skin. West was operating both our stations when I stumbled inside. There was a fifteen-person line by the window and two customers shuffling on the sidelines, complaining about an order West had gotten wrong.