I paused. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “I think so too.”
When I got to my grandmother’s house, I used my key, letting myself in without knocking.
“Gram?” I called, setting down the bag of pastries I’d picked up on the way. Peace offerings never hurt with her, especially when she was about to tell me exactly how badly I’d screwed up.
“In the sunroom,” her voice called back. “With my feet up and a gin and tonic in hand.”
I followed the sound of her voice, finding her exactly as described, reclining on her favorite chaise lounge, a drink in one hand and a romance book in the other. She didn’t look up when I entered, turning a page.
“Sit,” she commanded, still not looking at me. “And explain to me why you’re here instead of with that lovely young woman who actually had the patience to tolerate your nonsense.”
I sank into the armchair across from her. “You heard.”
“Of course I heard,” she sniffed, finally setting down her book to fix me with a piercing stare. “The catering service for my charity lunch is run by Ms. Landry’s cousin, who heard from Ms. Landry that you—and I quote—‘fucked up royally with Anica and are now on her eternal shit list.’”
I winced. “That was fast.”
“Gossip travels at the speed of light, darling. Especially when it involves billionaires making spectacular fools of themselvesover intelligent women.” She took a sip of her drink. “Now, tell me what happened. Every sordid detail.”
“I’m not sure you want the sordid details, Gram,” I said, remembering exactly how my morning with Anica had begun.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Skip the bedroom gymnastics. I’m old, not dead. I can fill in those blanks myself. Tell me how you managed to chase away the one woman who’s looked at you like you might actually be worth the trouble.”
I sighed, then gave her the abbreviated version; Anica staying over, my friends arriving, the overheard conversation, and the devastating aftermath. By the time I finished, Gram was shaking her head slowly, looking equal parts disappointed and exasperated.
“Oh, Cal,” she said, and somehow those two words carried the weight of decades of accumulated wisdom and frustration. “You are your father’s son in all the worst ways.”
The comparison stung. “I’m nothing like him.”
“No? The emotional unavailability? The absolute terror of admitting vulnerability? The way you push away anyone who gets too close? That’s absolutely my son.”
“I’m not scared,” I insisted, though we both knew it was a lie.
“Bullshit,” Gram snapped. “You’re terrified. You have been since you were seven years old and watched your parents tear each other apart while pretending everything was fine.”
I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “Their marriage was a sham.”
“Their marriage was a disaster,” she corrected. “But that doesn’t mean all marriages are. That doesn’t mean love isn’t real.”
“How can you, of all people, still believe in love?” I demanded. “After what Grandpa did to you? After how he hurt you?”
A shadow crossed her face, old pain briefly visible before she masked it with her usual steel. “Your grandfather was a bastard who didn’t deserve me,” she said matter-of-factly. “But that doesn’t mean what I felt for him wasn’t real. It doesn’t erase the good years before he showed his true colors.”
“He cheated on you,” I reminded her, anger on her behalf still hot after all these years. “He humiliated you. He nearly bankrupted you.”
“Yes,” she agreed calmly. “And after I divorced him and took him for everything he was worth, I picked myself up and moved on. Because one failed marriage doesn’t invalidate the entire concept of love.”
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building. “It’s not just one marriage, Gram. It’s everywhere. People cheat, they lie, they fall out of what they call love as easily as they fall into it.”
“Some do, but some don’t. Some people build lives together based on mutual respect, shared values, and genuine affection. Some people choose each other, every day, not because of some hormonal impulse but because they’ve found someone who makes life better just by being in it.”
Her words hit uncomfortably close to how I felt about Anica.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” I admitted.
“Yes, you do,” she said, setting down her drink and leaning forward. “You’re just too stubborn and scared to do it.”
“What, tell her I believe in love when I don’t? Lie to her?”
