His head falls into his hands, his fingers combing through his hair, making it stand on end. “He made me promise not to say a word to you or Aggie. Believe me, I wanted to so many times. I came close last night. But Wren wanted to be the one to try and explain his decision. I couldn’t take that away from him.” He pauses. “You can be mad at me all you want, you can hate my guts and not want to talk to me, but it won’t change the fact that Wren’s going to die, and we’ve all got to figure out a way to come to terms with that.”

“Did you at least try to talk him into the treatment?”

“What do you think, Calla?” Irritation flares in his voice. “Don’t you dare think for one second that you want this to happen any less, or that this is going to hurt you more than it does me, or Agnes, or Mabel. You’re gonna go back to your life in Toronto with a memory of him. Meanwhile, we’ll be here, feeling him gone every single damn day—” He cuts off abruptly, his voice turning hoarse.

“How are you not angry with him?”

“Not angry? I’m fucking pissed! Pissed that he waited so long to get checked out. Pissed that he didn’t quit that shit years ago.” His booming voice fills the small space. It’s a moment before he speaks again, more calmly. “But Wren doesn’t make rash decisions. He thinks long and hard about them. If even the doctors are saying they can only buy him a few extra weeks, then I can’t blame him for not wanting to waste what he’s got.”

“What about the rest of us, who have to sit by and watch?” I ask hollowly. Hasn’t he considered what this is going to do to the people who love him?

“He’s convinced himself that he’s making the best decision for everyone’s sake and the thing with him is, once he’s made up his mind, there’s no turning him around. He’s more stubborn than I am.”

Like the decision he made to let my mom and me go all those years ago.

What is life going to be like around here with him gone, I wonder, as my eyes crawl up the molded shower wall. This little modular house with the tacky ducks felt so empty when I first stepped into it and, while it’s still the same empty little house, I now have memories attached to it, to help fill it up. Of my dad’s soft chuckle carrying through the perpetual silence, of the smell of his fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, of the sound of the floors creaking as he pads down the hallway after saying good night to me. Such little things—tiny, trivial slivers of his life that shouldn’t count as memories—and yet I know they’ll be the first things that come to mind when I think of him here, years from now.

And that’s just within these walls. What about out there, beyond them? “What’s going to happen to Wild?” I ask numbly. Jonah’s not running things until my dad gets better.

He’s running things until my dad dies.

And then what?

Jonah shakes his head. “I don’t know. That’s a conversation for another day. Not today.”

“Why did you even let me waste my time building that website? It was totally pointless. And stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t. You wanted to try and help your dad. You were making an effort to know what he’s been doing around here, all these years.” I feel Jonah’s heavy gaze finally venture over, to linger on my bare skin. He pauses. “What the hell did you do to your feet?”

“I ran home from the hospital in my rain boots,” I admit sheepishly, curling my body tighter, suddenly feeling self-conscious about my nudity, even if Jonah saw every part of me many times over last night. Nothing about this moment feels remotely sexual.

“Jesus. They’re all chewed up. I’ve got a first-aid kit at my place. You need to cover those blisters.” He reaches for my towel, holding it out for me. “Come on. Water truck doesn’t come until tomorrow. If you want plumbing, you better grab your things and stay with me.” After a moment, he adds a soft, “Please.”

Finally, I accept the towel from him.

Knowing that I need to be near him tonight, running water or not.

The bathroom door opens as I’m rinsing face wash from my cheeks and nose. “Almost done, I swear.”

The curtain draws open behind me and Jonah steps in. Despite my dour mood, the sight of him naked stirs my blood instantly.

“Okay, fine.” I make to climb out.

He grabs hold of my shoulders, keeping me in place, his thumbs sliding over my slick skin, back and forth a few times, soothingly. And then his long, muscular arms are roping around my body and he’s pulling me backward against him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, bowing down to nestle his face in the crook of my neck, his beard tickling my skin. “I wanted to tell you, but I also didn’t. Don’t hate me.”

I let my head tilt into his. “I don’t hate you.” Far from it. I don’t even think I’m angry at Jonah. I’m angry with my father, for the path he’s chosen. With life, for how unfair it can be.

But Jonah . . .

Reaching up, I let my nails skate over his biceps a few times before gripping his arms tightly, returning the embrace. “I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper. I can’t imagine facing this without him.

He folds in closer, tighter, until I’m cocooned within him, the hard press of his collarbone all the way to his thighs conforming to my body. I can feel him growing hard against my back, and yet he doesn’t make a move to try to satisfy that need.