“Which is why you should just open your own,” my grandmother clucks with annoyance. “I dunno why you’re wasting your time with that one lady who’s just using you to make money.”
She’s not wrong. My boss, Andrea, barely knows what she’s doing in the kitchen.
“That all costs money,” I remind her. “And the extra hours give me extra money to do that.”
“Your hair looks stressed.”
I glance over at her with furrowed brows. “What? Is that… a thing?”
“For you? Yes.”
I roll my eyes, but my laugh slips out anyway.
God, I missed this.
Her tiny, barbed comments and dramatic worry. The way she makes space for me in a world where everything else tries to shrink me down.
“Are we winning tonight or what?” I switch topics like I haven’t been thinking about Benedikt nonstop since I left.
I try not to think about how my hands still tremble when I’m alone, or how my body curls up at night like it expects someone to break the door down.
Benedikt’s voice is still in my head.
The low, lethal calm. How quickly he went from hunting me down in L.A. to letting me go.
It makes zero sense.
I should let it go. I’m home and safe. Life is back to normal.
“I’m feeling lucky tonight.” My grandmother taps her cards. “It’s why I’m wearing my vixen-red lipstick and hit on my doctor today.”
Not again.
“Grands, they’re going to kick you out. And you like that doctor.”
She grunts. “I’m just admiring.”
“Most people do that silently.”
“And most people are boring.”
I blot the first number on my card as it’s called out, trying not to smile. It’s hard to stay tense around her, even when my stomach is still twisted with anxiety.
“I heard Doris put salt in Cynthia’s oxygen humidifier again,” my grandmother says casually. There is alwaysdrama at the senior-living facility. It’s where I get all my entertainment.
“Why?”
“She claims Cynthia’s been sabotaging her blood pressure with salty chicken salad.”
“Your building needs a reality show.”
“If you ever want to feel young and petty, this is the place.”
The numbers keep rolling out, and my grandmother mutters like a bookie. “Come on, G-54. Come to Mama.”
“What’s the prize tonight?”
“Target gift cards.” Then, she leans in conspiratorially. “Last week I told Harold to roll the balls around a little more, or I’d slap the retirement off him.”
