Page 18 of Sizzle

Another shrug.

“Storm front moving in,” he says, his eyes back on the television. I can tell he’s tuning me out again and as much as I hate that he won’t even try to get out on his own, I don’t have time to convince him right now.

“Okay,” I say, kissing his cheek again. “If you need me, I’ll be at the restaurant. I should be home in time for dinner.”

The bus ride gives me plenty of time to kick my own butt for trying to get him to leave the house. Talking about drinks is a waste of time if you can’t even get the horse to water.

I don’t know what he expects me to do. He knows we need the money. I’ve explained to him that I need this experience to qualify for the program at school. It’s not like we haven’t talked about all of this.

Maybe it’s not that he thinks he needs help. Maybe what he’s worried about is being alone in case something bad happens. After the accident and all the surgical complications that cropped up after it, I can’t really blame him. Worst Case Scenario isn’t just a vague fear for either of us anymore—it was our real life, for a while. Only Dad didn’t die.

I close my eyes against the thought. At eighteen, I hadn’t known a single person my age who knew what it felt like to take care of a parent. Having the impossible conversation of what would happen if another surgery went sideways, permanently.

It didn’t though, and Dad’s been well and truly on the mend for more than a year. Jim and Jessica go out of their way to encourage his independence and they’re forever telling me how much more he’s capable of if he’d just try. But that’s the thing—I can’t try for him, no matter how much I want to.

Maybe that’s what he needs, somebody else to tell him this stuff. A friend, a companion even. He’s long past needing a nurse, and thank God for that because there’s no way we could afford it at this point. I don’t know any of his friends anymore, if there are any still around. The crowd he used to hang out with at the VFW never came around the house even before the accident, and none of them showed up once it became clear that Dad’s recovery was going to take a lot longer than a few weeks.

Can you hire companions? The thought makes me snort. Yeah, that’ll go over well. Like a cement block tied to a kid’s balloon.

But I make a note in my phone to look into later, because what have I got to lose?

Connie’s already working through her daily checklist when I walk into the kitchen half an hour later.

“Morning, girlie,” she says glancing over her shoulder. “How’s tricks?”

“I don’t know what that means.” She says that every day but has never actually explained it to me. “How’s it looking?” I ask, gesturing at her list.

“Pretty good, considering who closed up last night,” she says, rolling her eyes before sticking me with a look. “Cheech and Chong had some help, I think.”

I flush and keep my eyes down. I’d stayed a few minutes later to cover what I could, knowing the guys closing last night were way more interested in sneaking outside to smoke… whatever it is they smoke than they were in finishing their prep.

“Glad to hear it,” I mumble. Dragging out my notes, I pull up a stool across from her.

“How’s your dad doing?” she asks.

“Okay,” I say. Connie’s quiet long enough that I look up, meeting her skeptical look head on. “Okay, so maybe ‘okay’ isn’t the right word.”

“He’s still not happy about you being gone?”

I nod. “Do you know anything about hiring companions?”

“You mean, like a hooker?”

My face goes lava hot and something in my expression makes her cackle.

“Oh, honey,” says Connie, wiping the corner of her eye. “You make it too easy.”

“I mean, like a nurse. Except he doesn’t need a nurse. He just needs somebody to hang out with. Somebody to talk to, or to help him get stuff around the house.” Or to dial 911, like he’s always so damn worried he won’t be able to do himself.

Truth be told, I worry about it too.

“We don’t have any other family close by, or I’d ask one of his sisters,” I say, shuffling my papers around.

“What kind of timeframe do you have in mind? During the day? Just when you’re out of the house?” she asks, busy again checking the labels on containers in the coolers next to us.

“Basically, any hours while I’m at work. It doesn’t have to be the whole time, just enough so he’s not alone the whole day. His therapists are there three times a week, so it’d really only be Tuesdays and Thursdays that we’d need somebody,” I say. “Why? Do you know somebody?”

“You could say that,” she says. She marks the final tick on her checklist and sets the clipboard down with a snap. “You and me are on opposite schedules the next couple of weeks.”