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Mr. Renshaw’s rosy cheeks go pale, confirming my suspicions.
Crap. It really is broken.
“I … I didn’t think it mattered, what with the end of the world comin’ and all,” Mr. Renshaw grumbles through his wiry gray beard. His once-bright eyes are dull, pinched at the corners in pain and red from countless sleepless nights.
“Is that why you wouldn’t let anybody see it?”
He shrugs and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Didn’t wanna worry ’em any more than they already was.”
Quint and I share a quick, sympathetic glance before I hop off the counter and cross the room.
Placing a hand on Mr. Renshaw’s shoulder, I say, “Welp, the world’s not ending after all, so what do you say we get you fixed up?”
He shakes his head, pulling his hurt leg a little further under the chair.
“No?”
“I ’preciate you tryin’ to take care of me, Rainbow; I do. But I think it’s best to just let it be.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Not that I have any idea what I’m doing.
I glance down at his leg—I don’t even touch it—and the jumpy old bastard swivels away from me in his seat with a loud, “No!” He drops his eyes with an embarrassed chuckle. “I mean … I’m fine. Thanks anyway, young lady.”
I huff loud enough for him to hear me. Mama used to say that the burliest men were always the biggest babies when it came to boo-boos.
Mama.
The second her beautiful, tired, stressed-out face comes to mind, I frantically grasp at the nothingness, pulling it on like a hazmat suit right before the sadness slams into me.
Once I’m safe in my feelingless fog again, I look back down at Mr. Renshaw. His face is just as guarded as mine.
“I guess we’re done here then, huh?”
His bushy eyebrows lift in surprise. “You ain’t gonna argue with me?”
I shake my head and swivel his chair toward the door. Using it like a wheelchair, I roll him out into the hallway. “I know better than to argue with a Renshaw. Y’all are almost as stubborn as you are cocky.”
“Hey,” Mr. Renshaw snaps. “If God didn’t want me to brag, he shouldn’t’ve made me so damn pretty.”
I shake my head as I roll the old man back home.
When we get to the shoe store, I’m greeted by an enthusiastic tackle hug from Sophie and a sad-eyed, sorry about your parents hug from Mrs. Renshaw. Both of them make me want to cry.
And also remind me why leaving the tuxedo shop is such a bad idea.
It takes almost all the energy I have to crank my mouth up into a smile. I can’t remember the last time I ate … or even stood up for this long. Spots begin to dance along the edges of my vision.
“He’s all yours,” I say, walking backward out of the store as the room begins to tilt. “I, uh … I gotta get back to Quint. See ya later …”
Once I’m in the hallway, I tear my eyes away from their disappointed faces and head back to Savvi so fast that I’m practically jogging. I keep my gaze glued to the floor and count my steps along the way to keep my eyes and mind from wandering to dangerous places.
Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety—
As soon as I cross the threshold into my new home, I finally look up.
And find Q staring back at me.
