Forever & Ever

by Tere Michaels

  Griffin heaved a sigh, pulling back. His expression said it all. “Okay, thanks,” he said, all the anger knocked out of him. “I’ll uh, be back in a few minutes.”

  “At least twenty. I’m blocking the door.”

  Nodding, Griffin walked to Jim’s bedside and bent down to kiss him gently on the cheek. He didn’t say anything else when he left the room.

  MATT SAT down at Jim’s bedside in the world’s most uncomfortable leatherette chair. It creaked as he settled back, his gaze locked on Jim’s still form.

  Guilt marinated his guts. He should have insisted Jim quit as soon as he heard about his condition. Put his foot down—right up until Jim ripped it off and shoved it up his ass.

  Yeah, that wouldn’t have worked.

  But truth be told, Matt’s real reason for not saying more was pure selfishness, bathed in deep-down understanding of his friend’s plight. If someone told Matt to stop working, go sit on a couch—not because he wanted to but because he had to….

  He’d go ballistic.

  So Jim would be mad and bitter and hate it—but fuck that, he’d be alive.

  “You’re fired,” Matt whispered sadly as he watched his friend sleep.

  EVAN DROVE home, enjoying a post–rush-hour commute. He turned on the radio, whistled along with the oldies station, and imagined himself putting a big red circle around November 1 on the calendar when he got home. It was real. Official. Retired captain Evan Cerelli, husband, father, and grandfather, settling in to civilian life in a matter of months.

  Maybe he’d call Fred and Blake, start discussing the care and proper feeding of a lawn. Maybe he’d grow a beard. It would offset all the hair he was losing on top.

  “Text Matt,” he said as his phone lit up from its holder on the dash. “Meeting over. November 1 is a go. Call as late as you want. Let me know how Jim is doing.”

  The polite voice asked him if he wanted to send.

  “Send.”

  Evan went back to whistling.

  He pulled into the driveway, turned off the lights. The engine. Hand on the door, ready to open it. Thinking about leftovers, because yes, Matt was right. That ziti from the shower….

  His phone lit up with his son-in-law Kent’s face, and Evan’s entire evening took a left turn.

  “CONTRACTIONS ARE three minutes apart,” Kent babbled as Evan met him in the hallway outside Obstetrics. The young man’s hair was askew, his gym clothes ill fitting, like he’d grabbed someone else’s when he heard Miranda was in labor. “I called Mom and Dad and Katie. And you.” He took a breath. “It’s early.”

  “Only two weeks,” Evan said, laying a soothing hand on Kent’s arm. “What did the doctor say?”

  “First babies don’t usually come this fast, but Miranda is impatient, so he wasn’t really surprised,” Kent quoted. He twitched a smile. “She didn’t like that too much.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. Get back inside; I’ll wait for everyone here, okay?” What he actually wanted to do was run down the hall, find his daughter’s room, and make sure she was okay. But that was her husband’s job. “Give her a big kiss from me.”

  Kent nodded. He still looked frazzled, so Evan made a calculated decision, pulling him into a backslapping hug. “You can do this, Kent. Just stay calm and… and enjoy the moment. Your little girl is going to be here soon.”

  MATT FIDDLED with his phone, checking sports scores, the weather. Anything to keep his mind occupied. He stole one of Griffin’s Diet Cokes and ten of his fries, his stomach suddenly reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch.

  The phone vibrated in his hand with a text.

  Red Alert! Miranda’s in labor!

  9: Red Alert

  JIM BOBBED, nodding in between sleep and wakefulness, catching snippets of conversations. A scatter of words, a burst of emotionally pitched voices. The quiet movement of nurses who changed his IV. He always knew when Griffin was at his side, the touch of his fingers twined, thumb rubbing back and forth quickly against the inside of Jim’s wrist.

  Matt was restless, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Shifting in his seat. Muttering while he texted on his phone.

  He never did remember to silence it, and Jim heard the clicking as he drifted off again.

  The fever gave him terrible dreams, loud and red and frightening retellings of memories. Chasing a suspect through dark alleyways, listening to a fellow officer’s death rattle during a domestic violence call gone bad. That day in court with Tripp Ingersoll, when grief killed Della Kelly.

  Those were bad, but nothing touched the dreams where Tripp Ingersoll escaped from prison and came after Griffin and Caroline. Jim searching the house frantically for his family but finding only Tripp, smiling maniacally and covered with blood.

  Jim forced himself awake, swimming up to consciousness with a start. He gasped out loud, triggering a coughing fit that shook the bed. His eyes stayed closed—because opening them felt like too much effort—so when someone touched his arm, he tried to get away.

  “No, no, it’s me, relax,” Griffin murmured, stroking Jim’s arm and shoulder until he caught his breath. “I’ll get the nurse.”

  Jim’s eyelids fluttered. He reached for Griffin and shook his head.

  “I don’t have to leave, just….” There was a moment of fumbling in the bedclothes; then Griffin went back to comforting Jim.

  The cough finally slowed, every breath a painful rattle.

  The door creaked open.

  “See, the nurse is here,” Griffin whispered, brushing a kiss against Jim’s temple. “She’s going to give you a breathing treatment.”

  He opened his mouth to protest and was cut off by a mask being lowered over his face.

  WHEN JIM woke up again—really woke up, rooted in reality—the sun shone through the blinds of his hospital room. IV, check. Oxygen, check. Breathing? Not bad.

  Relief coursed through Jim’s entire body.

  No one sat in the chair next to his bed, so he allowed himself to be emotional, at least for a moment. Not being able to breathe now sat atop his very private list of Shit That Scares James Shea. Tears filled his eyes as every moment of the past… twenty-four hours?—he was guessing—came back to him. Feeling like he was going to die. Fainting in the bedroom at Matt’s feet. Griffin’s fury. Griffin’s fear. Their ridiculous fight, part stubbornness and just… due. He’d been honestly waiting for his husband to lose his shit since the diagnosis, because Griffin didn’t do emotion halfway.

  Too calm. Too accepting of Jim’s continued work schedule.

  The first time Jim went away for business, he expected to come home to an empty house.

  A tear rolled down Jim’s face.

  Someone knocked at the door. Jim raised the arm not attached to the IV and quickly wiped his eyes. “Come in,” he croaked.

  A smiling Daisy ducked her head in, followed by the rest of her body. She wore a Yankees baseball cap, yoga pants, nylon jacket, and a tank that proclaimed her a member of the Goddess Squad, her typical running errands/trying not be recognized outfit.

  “Hey! You look a lot better. That’s a human skin color.” She let the door close gently behind her. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” He attempted a smile and wink, but Daisy rolled her eyes as she threw herself into his bedside chair.

  “You better work on that before Griffin gets back.”

  Jim worked his head back and forth, trying to crack the tension in his neck. “I feel like a tank ran over me.”

  “Better,” she said, smirking.

  “Where is he?” They’d mellowed into a friendship over the years, bound together by a mutual love of Griffin and now the bond between their girls. “Is he all right?”

  “I made him go home to shower and spend some time with Caroline.”

  Jim squinted, suddenly concerned about how much time he’d lost. He looked around the room, trying to find a clock.

  “It’s Friday. She had a half day,” Daisy said gently. “Last day of sc
hool is next Wednesday. You didn’t miss anything.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Jim settled back against the covers. “Is she upset?”

  Daisy pursed her lips. “We told her you were sick and you didn’t want her to catch it. She’s drawn you about three hundred pictures.”

  Jim’s lungs tightened with grief. He hated letting his little girl down. “They won’t let her come here, will they?”

  “We tried. But honestly I agree—seeing you hooked up to machines will mess her up.” Daisy had opinions about children, mostly about protecting them from real life for as long as possible. As a pragmatist, Jim usually disagreed, but maybe not this time. “You go home, lie in bed and let her snuggle you, and all will be well.”

  Nodding, Jim nervously twisted the blanket between his fingers. “You didn’t answer the question about Griffin….”

  “He’s mad and scared, in equal parts.” He appreciated her matters-of-factness. “He wants to throttle you, so I would consider playing up the feeling shitty angle a while longer.”

  Jim sighed as he stared up at the ceiling. “I should have just gone to the hospital when he wanted me to.”

  Daisy gasped dramatically. “Holy crap. Can you say that again? I wasn’t recording.”

  “Be nice to me, I’m sick.”

  “You’re stubborn. It’s not the same thing.” Daisy tapped her feet against the bed. “You know you have to retire, right?”

  Even at this moment, Jim couldn’t resist the urge to protest. “Technically this has nothing to do with the familial hypercholesterolemia.”

  She moaned, covering her face with both hands. “I’m going to have to testify when he murders you.”

  “Drama queen,” he said under his breath.

  Daisy peeked out, a knowing smile on her face. “You’re going to retire and let him spoil you. Or else you’re going to be buried in the backyard under an ornamental well.”

  “You’re getting violent in your old age.” He scowled at her.

  “Watch it.” She twisted on the chair, reaching into her pocket to pull out her phone. “Text from your husband. He is on his way back and wants to know if you need anything.”

  “Can I eat real food?”

  “You want something hot?”

  “He’s just going to bring me something healthy and low-fat. And no salt.”

  Daisy made mmmmm noises. “He’s bringing you soup. Probably something disgusting like lentil.”

  She texted back, fingers flying for at least a paragraph of words.

  “What?”

  “What what? I told him to bring me a salad and an iced tea.”

  Jim tried to calculate how long it would be before Griffin arrived and how much groveling he’d have to do to smooth this over. Retirement was the least of it.

  “I feel like an idiot,” he murmured, staring at the bathroom door.

  “You are an idiot, but Griffin loves you more than anything,” Daisy said briskly. “And I get it—you are not a couch person. You’re not going to go gently into that good night either.” She paused. “We will absolutely have to find you a hobby.”

  Jim made a strangled sound.

  “Bowling. Woodworking? How are you with a saw?”

  “Your hobby is tormenting me.” He turned to face her. “I will be spending time with Griffin and Caroline.”

  “Griffin has a career that takes up long hours, and Caroline goes from school to camp to soccer to dance.” Her serious expression caught Jim’s attention—Daisy was the consummate professional with a perky “public” face. The real Daisy Mae didn’t show up very often.

  She was here now.

  “I’m serious, James. You have a health issue that means cutting back on stress. But you are not any less yourself. Your drive is still going to be there. You’re still going to wake up ridiculously early, you’re still going to insist on exercising like a psycho. You’re still going to resist sitting around all damn day. You have to figure out a way to occupy your mind and your time,” Daisy said passionately, leaning forward in emphasis. “Believe me when I say this, Jim. I love my life more than I can articulate to you. I love my kid and my husband. My workshops. The odd acting job. It’s all good. But.”

  She stopped abruptly. Jim couldn’t look away from her. It hadn’t occurred to him, all these years, the things they had in common.

  “But,” he said softly. “You miss who you used to be.”

  Her lips went tight, a straight line of denial, but she nodded.

  “My life ten years ago doesn’t even vaguely resemble this one. It was terrible! Toxic. And yet sometimes I think—I used to live in a mansion. An assistant followed me around, doing my bidding. The money, the clothes, the pampering. I was a movie star, Jim. A fucking movie star.” She took a deep breath. “On the other hand, today I had a moment of sadness because school drop-off was almost done for the year and I’ll miss seeing some of the moms in the line every morning.”

  “Weirdo,” Jim said, feeling his nose and throat clog up. Stupid pneumonia. Stupid medicine.

  Daisy reached over to grasp Jim’s hand. “I. Love. My. Life. But sometimes the old Daisy gets sad and frustrated. It’s why I teach. It’s why I do at least one acting job a year. It’s why I am telling you to be prepared for when you miss your old life, even if it was killing you.”

  GRIFFIN DID not expect to walk into Jim’s hospital room, hands full of bags from Molly’s Kitchen, to find his husband and his best friend holding hands, exchanging looks that could only be described as… meaningful.

  “Is there something you kids want to tell me?”

  Both snapped their gazes to him, pulling their hands back like he’d caught them doing something naughty.

  “Yes, I’m running away with Jim. We’re going to move somewhere secluded and annoy each other into insanity,” Daisy said primly, wiping her eyes discreetly.

  “That sounds about right.” Griffin put the bags down on the bedside table.

  “Hey,” Jim said almost casually, avoiding Griffin’s eyes.

  “Hey.” Griffin leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, happy to find the skin under his lips cooler than a few hours ago. “Looks like the medication is working pretty fast. You look a thousand times better.”

  Jim nodded. When he finally tipped his head enough so Griffin could see his eyes, his expression was one of incredible guilt. Griffin kissed him again, this time on the lips.

  “I love you,” he said quietly.

  “Griffin….”

  “We’ll talk after you eat some soup.” Griffin straightened up, ducking around Daisy, who was already elbow-deep in the bags, searching for her salad.

  “Where are the girls?” Jim asked.

  “Georgia took them to the pool.” Daisy gathered her food and iced tea and then bussed a kiss to Griffin’s cheek. “I’m heading out.”

  She did the same to Jim, the look of understanding that passed between them piquing Griffin’s interest. He set up a container of lentil soup on Jim’s tray, letting the moment happen without his interference.

  By the time the door closed behind her, Griffin had settled down in the vacated chair, waiting for a story.

  Jim poked the soup with a spoon, a look of distaste on his face.

  “Enjoy,” Griffin said perkily, faking it as he opened his tenth Diet Coke of the day.

  A tiny dab on the end of the spoon finally reached Jim’s tongue.

  “So, what’s going on with you and Daisy Mae?”

  Jim shoveled a far larger portion into his mouth instead of answering.

  “I have plenty of time,” he said lightly after taking a sip of his soda. “We can cover you and my best friend having feelings. We can talk about you getting out of here. And then….”

  Swallowing, Jim dropped the spoon on the table, then settled back against the pillows. “I know it’s hard to believe, but she had some good advice.” He shrugged. “When can I leave?”

  Griffin watched his husband throwing his walls into place, the same
thing he did every time Griffin challenged him. And Griffin usually responded by deflecting and charming and teasing Jim into a compromise.

  And maybe that meant part of this was his fault. For keeping calm and not laying down the law when it came to Jim retiring—which meant it was time to rectify that.

  Griffin wouldn’t be deflecting this time.

  “They want to run a few tests, and you’ll probably get another breathing treatment. Maybe a few hours and they’ll spring you,” Griffin said, shaking the bottle to make more bubbles appear. “And we can do this at home or here, doesn’t matter. But this conversation is happening.”

  The tension in the room notched up. Jim shifted under the covers and then picked up the spoon to play with his soup again.

  “You need to let Matt know you’re not going to be able to keep working with him.” Griffin dropped it casually, even as his heart banged against his ribs. He wanted the words out of his mouth. For a long quiet moment, everything felt fragile, precarious.

  Jim swallowed, his gaze locked on the take-out bowl of soup in front of him. Griffin waited for the shouting, the anger. The resistance. But seconds stretched out to minutes without the expected explosion.

  Finally Jim raised his eyes to meet Griffin’s.

  “I can’t just sit on a couch,” Jim murmured. “I can’t just… stop. I’ll go crazy, Griffin.” His tone and expression implored Griffin to understand. “I’ll stop traveling, I’ll stop going to meetings in the city, I’ll eat every boring piece of cardboard health food you put in front of me, but I can’t….”

  Griffin nodded, fingers tightening on the bottle. “Okay. But if you keep working with Matt, it’s only a matter of time before you get the itch again, and I refuse. Refuse.” He stressed the word with a hitch in his voice. “To fight you again about this.”

  “So, I don’t work with Matt.” His shoulders slumped in defeat, and it took every bit of Griffin’s strength not to break down, give in. Denying Jim was torture. “There has to be something else I can do.”