When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(29)

She just needed escrow to close.

Then the back-and-forth could stop and she could get on with her life.

Even if that meant arguing with her dad.

She moaned, thinking of the conversation she’d had with him. How much trouble was he going to be now?

Brooke pushed the food around her plate, losing interest, and sipped on the wine.

A couple of days of working and getting used to her own space and she’d feel better.

And a good night’s sleep.

Or a week.

A week’s worth of sleep.

As she leaned into the thought . . . her phone rang, and her dad’s image popped up on the screen.



Her first stop was Walmart, where she acquired the smallest microwave oven she’d ever seen, one that would fit on the tiny kitchen counter in her father’s space. Then she drove to Autumn Senior Living, and showed up at the front door.

The attendant was pleasant. “Good morning.”

“Hi. I’m Joe Turner’s daughter, Brooke.”

“Yes, I remember. Were we expecting you today?”

Brooke shook her head as they stood on opposite sides of the door talking through the gap. “No. No. I got a call from my dad last night. He asked me to bring this. I was hoping I could take it up to him.”

The girl shook her head but opened the door wider. “You can leave it at the desk, and we can get it to his room. He can’t have visits while he is in quarantine or it sets back the time frame and involves another test.”

Brooke followed her inside just far enough to set the microwave down. “Yeah, about that. Today is day four, they said three days. I know it’s likely today something will happen, but my dad is going a bit crazy up there by himself. I need him to acclimate here.”

“We’re aware of that. The sample wasn’t taken until yesterday. The results won’t be in for two more days.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. The nurse . . . there was a scheduling issue. These things happen.”

Much as Brooke wanted to bitch, standing in the lobby where a few residents milled around, two lumbering with walkers, one in a wheelchair, another walking at a slow but steady pace, she didn’t want to make a scene. “Can you make sure my dad gets this right away? He complained that the food being delivered wasn’t warm enough.”

The girl nodded, assured her he’d get the microwave, and Brooke left the building.

When her phone rang as she pulled off the freeway and made her way home, she knew who was calling without looking at the number. “Hello, Dad.”

“I got the m-microwave.”

No “Hello” . . . no “How are you.” Just right to the point.

“Good.”

“They . . . you, didn’t come up.”

“I couldn’t. The rules—”

“Fuck them.”

Brooke gripped the steering wheel. “They’re temporary.”

“Brooke . . .”

She cut him off before he could start complaining. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me that they didn’t even swab you for the virus test until after you’d been there for a couple of days?”

“It doesn’t . . . don’t matter.”

“It does matter, Dad. You came from one home to another, and they have to take extra precautions. The test takes three days for the results. You’ve been told that. Getting angry because the results aren’t back right away and then yelling at me to do something isn’t fair.”

“Well.” Her dad sighed. “I th-thought they got the results fast.”

“Did they tell you that?”

“No.”

Brooke pulled into her parking space, killed the engine. “Then you assumed.” She removed her phone from her purse, switched the call from the car to her phone, and stepped out of the car. “I know this is hard, but I’m doing all I can.”

“I don’t like it.”

She marched to the back door, her peripheral vision all but cut off. “What exactly do you think your options are?”

“Go back to the condo.”

“It’s sold,” she lied.

“Live with you.”

She stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and yanked the door open. “We’ve been over this.” Brooke hit the stairs like a determined athlete. Anger fueling each step. “I don’t have it in me to be your nurse.”

“I don’t . . . I’m better.”

She paused on the second floor, moved the phone to her other ear, and kept climbing. “Are you still in the diaper?” Brooke almost never used the term diaper. She normally softened the reference to save her father the embarrassment.

“I don’t need it.”

“But you’re still in it. And it’s perfectly fine that you are, Dad. Give your body time to heal.”

Her father was silent by the time she reached her door.

“Are you running?” he asked.

She unlocked the door and pushed her way inside. “My apartment is on the fourth floor and there isn’t an elevator. You couldn’t navigate the stairs even before you got sick. Living with me isn’t going to happen.”

Brooke pushed the door shut and walked right to the slider, opened it, and stepped onto the terrace.