Chapter 9

It has to be said: When we entered the house it smelled fucking delicious. Paula Deen motherfuckers.

"Isabella, this is Lauren. Lauren, meet Isabella."

The two women stared each other down for several uncomfortable minutes. Isabella, who I'd known to be mostly sweet and carefree, looked uncharacteristically stern. I wheeled Lauren past the foyer and into the kitchen when it didn't look like either woman wanted to talk. Isabella followed behind us.

Clearing her throat, Isabella said, "It's good to meet you, Lauren. I don't know if you've eaten…"

Lauren cut her off quickly, but not rudely. "I'm fine. Well, not fine, obviously, but I'm okay. I just need to rest. And, likewise."

I took a deep breath in relief. "I'll get you situated in the guest room."

Isabella looked sheepishly at me. "I've already turned down the bed and stocked the bathroom. I just… wanted to help."

Isabella looked uncertain. I certainly couldn't blame her, but I wished for a way to make things easier. I just couldn't see one. Lauren couldn't live in her house alone, and Rose was only staying for Christmas. Who would help Lauren bathe, dress, and otherwise move around? The more I looked at the situation, the more confident I felt that it had to be me. I'm the one who pledged to take care of Lauren for the rest of my life.

I didn't keep all the promises I ever made to her, but I could at least hold up this part of the bargain.

I looked between Lauren, who looked drowsy again, and Isabella who seemed to be looking anywhere but at Lauren. I thought about the joy I found in her giggles, in her cooking, in her body.

I made a choice. I left Lauren's wheelchair and crossed the room to Isabella. Picking up her chin, I looked solemnly into her eyes. "You have helped," I said earnestly. "Thank you."