Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Energy surges through my body, but it’s a fast surge. It underlines my exhaustion. “Soon.”
“Tomorrow?” she offers.
“Fern and North are coming tomorrow.”
“A family reunion?” she asks. “Perfect. Let’s go out. All four of us. Five of us. If Deanna wants. But she never wants.”
I nod.
She smiles. “How about I walk you home?”
“It’s a long way.”
She laughs hard, even though it’s really not that funny, gets out of the car, and helps me out.
I take her hand and follow her onto the sidewalk, up the stone path to Grandma’s house.
We stand there, under the porch light, exactly where I pictured us a million times.
This is where we whisper, I had a great time, and kiss.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Lexi squeezes my hand. She looks up at me with affection and need in those big, blue eyes.
It’s what I imagined, but doesn’t feel the way I imagined. It’s not perfect. I’m not finally whole. “Tomorrow.”
“Until then.” She moves closer, rises to her tiptoes, and brings her lips to mine.
A soft hint of a kiss.
I expect cranberry, pomegranate, vodka—
The taste on Deanna’s lips—
But there’s nothing. Only Lexi.
It’s everything I imagined.
It’s nothing like what I imagined.
Chapter Twelve
River
At home, I hang my coat on the rack, next to Grandma’s silk trench (as she says, “It may not rain in California, sweetheart, but it does rain men. I need to look my best.”).
“You’re out late. Did you finally sleep with the girl next door?” Grandma asks from her spot on the couch. “Or do we need to go over mechanics again?” She smiles. “Should I grab a condom and a zucchini?”
“Please don’t.”
“A banana?”
“Yes, the fruit in question is the problem.”
She laughs. “How was the party?”
“Fine.”
“Only fine?” She checks the time on her slim silver watch. “Past midnight?”
“I didn’t stay long,” I say.
“Oh? Finally take that drive to make-out point?” she teases. “How many virginities do you think she’s taken there?”
“Why? Are you competing?” I don’t feel my usual need to rebuff the question. Sure, Lexi sleeps around. So what? I never cared about that. But I don’t typically enjoy the thought of her with another man.
Only right now, I don’t care.
I can’t see us there.
I can’t see any of it.
Grandma’s laugh pulls me back to the scene. “Sweetheart, do you really want the answer to that?”
“You were married for thirty years,” I say.
“I wasn’t married for a long time before and after that.”
“Meet a lot of seventy-year-old virgins?” I ask.
Grandma shoots me one of her signature don’t be naive, darling looks. “A lot of men enjoy an older woman.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to know this.” Really. I love Grandma. She’s basically my mom at this point. But I don’t need to picture her with a younger man. Or any man. “Did you finish the bottle?”
“Wine after midnight?”
“I’m living dangerously.”
“No,” she says. “Two glasses left.”
“You drank all that on your own?” I ask.
“Mr. Huntington stopped by for a glass.”
I raise a brow. “Don’t tell me.”
“Of course not. He’s not a virgin.” She starts to push up, but she doesn’t have the strength.
I pretend I don’t notice. I take the glass to the kitchen, fill hers, pour another for me, recycle the bottle, and take a moment to compose myself.
She’s not well.
She needs help.
And she’s crystal clear on what she wants from me.
Company. Only company.
No debates, no opinions on her treatment plans, no carrying her up the stairs or bringing home her groceries or cooking.
She’s taking care of herself, as much as she can, as long as she can.
I can live with that, or I can leave.
By the time I step into the living room, I present a serene expression.
I place the glasses on the coffee table and sit next to her. “What are we watching?”
“Damages.”
“The one with the evil lawyer?”
“Everyone thinks a woman with power is evil.”
“Doesn’t she have people killed?” I ask.
“Okay, she’s a little evil,” Grandma says. “But that’s what it takes to succeed.”
“How’d you do so well then?”
She laughs. “I’ve made my share of compromises.”
“Anything you regret?”
She pretends not to notice the thoughts of a dying woman tone to the question. “There’s a lot I’d do differently, but I don’t regret anything. How could I when I have you?”
This isn’t like her. She’s pragmatic. She moves forward. She doesn’t look backward. “When did you get sentimental?”
“When I had your mother. And your aunt.”
“Kids? That’s what does it?”
“Yes. But it makes you painfully pragmatic, too. There’s no one who fights harder to survive than a mom.”
“You sure about that?” Shit. I’m supposed to stay away from heavy things. Not dive headfirst.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She pats my shoulder. “Your mom is fighting. It’s just a different battle for her.”
“She was fighting.” The first time she went to rehab. The second, too. All these years since her last slip? Not so much.
“I won’t tell you she’ll get there, because I don’t know. But I know she loves you.”