Page 83 of A Bittersweet Summer

“It’s okay.”

When she draws back, Gus scoots to one side of the bed, patting the spot next to him to have her join.

Megan crawls in next to my brother, moving the pouch with tubes connected to his abdomen. It’s filled with fluid—probably from the abscess that caused this whole mess.

“I brought food,” I say, setting it on the tray by the bed.

Gus smiles, running a hand down Megan’s hair where she is nestled into the crook of his arm. “Good,” he says, eyes closed. “This hospital food tastes like ass.”

Wesley chuckles, moving to the couch to take a seat. I can tell he’s nervous by the way he tips forward, elbows on his knees. He wrings his hands together, eyes fixed on my brother.

“I started your blanket,” I start before moving to sit next to Wes. I’m on the edge of my seat, unable to relax in a place thatsmells so much of death. “It would cover one foot at this point, but I thought you should know I started it.”

“Better finish it, Cassidy,” he teases, a slow smile forming and then falling.

We stay for an hour, chatting with Megan, mostly when Gus falls asleep. Wes brings her some essentials from the pharmacy a mile up the road, stocking their room with snacks and drinks thatdon’t taste like ass.

When we finally leave, I cling to Wesley. His grip on my hand keeps me present—keeps me from falling into useless worries.

“I’m glad he’s okay,” I whisper, tipping my head back against the headrest.

“Me too,” Wes says, his voice soft. “Me too.”

I stop by the office in the barn, the sun long since set. There’s something quiet about the farm this late. The crickets chirping and the call of an owl off in the woods settle my soul.

“Hey, Rory,” I say, scratching the cat on the chin. She leans into it. “Why don’t you come sleep at my house tonight?” I ask, and she willingly jumps into my arms.

“You could stay up here,” Wesley says from behind me. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Or I can stay with you. Either way. I don’t think you should be alone.” He swallows, looking away. “I don’t want to be alone.”

I nod. “Okay,” I say, planting a kiss on Rory’s head. “Do you think Mud will mind a second guest?”

“He likes that cat,” Wes says. “I’m sure he will be ecstatic.”

I step toward the door, Wes’s hand steady on my back all the way up to the farmhouse.

Before bed, Wes’s shirtless chest gives a steady rise and fall, his dark lashes kissing his cheeks as he sleeps.

Rory curled her way up at the foot of the bed right next to Mud.

I take my phone from the nightstand, careful to keep the plug in, and pull up Gus’s name.

Me:I love you, August.

I stare at my phone, watching the dots appear, disappear, and reappear again. Before I close my eyes, I read a message from my brother.

Gus:Thank you for coming over for a visit. I hope you get lots of rest.

Gus:I love you, too.

Twenty-Three

Wes

Nobody prepares you for the pain of watching someone you love struggle.

And while I knew Cass’s history—her childhood experiences—I didn’t fully understand the heaviness of what she carried.

When she walked into the barn in April, yellow boots and all, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Cassidy Summers felt like a breath of fresh air—like long-awaited good news in the middle of my monotonous routine.