Page 111 of Long Story Short

“We’re here, Mr. Russell,” the second nurse adds as they help him further inside. To bring Pop home, we had to hire around-the-clock nurses to aid in his care, something I’m incredibly grateful we’re in the position to be able to afford. At first, the doctors wanted Pop to continue his recovery at a facility, but he wouldn’t have any of that. He worked as hard as possible to be able to return to his home.

“This way,” I tell the nurses, already moving ahead of them. I lead them down the hallway to Pop’s bedroom on the first floor. We’ve had to make some changes to the house to make it safe and usable for Pop now that walking is much harder for him, but the house is finally accessible enough for him to come home.

We get Pop settled into bed. They adjust the pillows and explain what medications and routines he’ll be on and what they’ll be helping with.

I nod along and try to absorb what I can, but I can’t help it…my focus keeps returning to Pop, to the rise and fall of his chest. To the fact that I didn’t lose him. My chest tightens at the sight of him in the bed, still fragile but here. That’s what matters. That he made it home.

One of the nurses settles into a chair in the corner while the other places a small tray of supplies beside the bed.

It’s subtle, but it is still another reminder of how much has changed. This isn’t just his room anymore. He’s being watched and taken care of.

Eventually, the craziness of the day settles down. One of the nurses—Patty—remains in the room. She moves quietly in the background, giving us space to soak in Pop’s arrival but never fully leaving.

The door to his room was left open, and as I look around, I realize the house doesn’t feel private the way it used to. It’s his house—my house—but it’s something different too.

I have to remind myself that no matter what’s changed with Pop, and that he still has a long road to recovery left, he made it home. That’s what counts.

I move my attention to Pop. They had to swap out his old bed for this new one that looks eerily similar to the ones at the hospital.

“You’re home, Pop,” I tell him, closing the distance and grabbing his hand.

He gives me a weak smile. “Home,” he rasps. Walking’s come easier for Pop than talking has. While he’s able to get some words out, the doctors say it might take some time for him to speak the way he used to. Luckily, I have all the time in the world to give Pop. And until he can get back to the same teasing he used to, I’ll be the one to talk enough for both of us.

“Get some rest,” I tell him, bringing his frail hand to my lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Pop nods before closing his eyes. I know the bustle of today must’ve exhausted him. We tried bringing him home in his wheelchair, but he was adamant about walking into the house. He did a great job doing so, but I know now he must be incredibly exhausted by it all.

I turn to leave the room, finding Tyson leaning against the wall by the door. He’s been there the entire time, watching me in the same way he has for weeks now. Like he’s making sure I’m okay—that I’m still holding it together. He’s always watching, ready to step in when I need him.

I step out the door, my hand immediately finding his as we walk through the home I grew up in. I wish the first time he got to visit this house was for a weekly dinner with Pop; instead, his first time visiting the house was late one night after we spent the day at the hospital with Pop.

We walk hand in hand all the way to my childhood bedroom. Like we’ve done countless times the last couple of weeks, we crawl into bed, our bodies finding each other’s immediately.

I pull the blanket over both of us, trapping us under the sheets together in a world that’s just ours, like I used to do as a kid when life got too overwhelming. Nan would sometimes join me under the covers as a reminder that I don’t have to handle things alone.

And now, Tyson does it.

My rock this last month. He’s been my constant.

Mine.

“Hi,” I whisper, reaching across the mattress and placing my hand on his cheek. We both probably look silly lying under the covers completely clothed. I don’t care what it looks like to anyone else. Right now, I’m soaking in being in the bubble of comfort with Tyson.

Tyson smiles. “Hi,” he responds, pressing a kiss to my palm.

I run my thumb along his bottom lip, savoring the moment with him. He’s barely left my side throughout all of this, and still, sometimes, I can’t believe he’s here. He’s always been here. Through the countless meetings with doctors, trying to come up with a care plan for Pop. Through the nights of me not being able to sleep because of being worried about Pop. Through the times when I tried to distract myself by writing the book that was due. He’s stepped up in a way I never expected him to. Taking care of Mouse. Bringing food to the hospital for me and Scarlett, who has also been by my side through all of this, and making sure we eat. Buying jugs of the Hamptons Honey Latte so I didn’t have to miss out on my favorite coffee. Through the big and the little things, he’s been here, and I wish I could put into words how much it means to me to have had him by my side through all of it.

“Guess what,” I mutter as my fingertips trail over his skin.

His blue gaze runs over my face. “What?”

“They loved the book,” I say quietly, relief running through me at the words. With everything that happened with Pop, I had no idea if I’d be able to turn the book in or not—or if it’d be any good—but I heard back from my editor this morning.

“Yeah?” Tyson asks, his lips turning up into a smile.

I nod. “Yep. My editor loved it. Says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. Even Eli made a comment on how the entire marketing team loves it.”

Pride is written all over his features as he cups my face in both his hands. “I’m not surprised at all. I knew you’d write the best damn book out there—” He pauses for a moment before winking.“—with just a little bit of inspiration.”