A part of Gram died that day as well. Her mind deteriorated and her body followed piece by piece, leaving her a broken shell of a woman who survives on a cocktail of medications to make it through the day.
I stowed my grief and raised myself while also caring for her. It was…a heavy burden…for a little kid to carry.
Her kitchen is tidy but ancient and microscopic, without an update or upgrade since the seventies. And while I grab two glasses and fill them with lemonade—Nikki may be Gram’s nurse, but in actuality, the woman is much more—I listen as Rhys gives half-ass answers.
I return with the glasses, and our fingers brush when I hand one to Rhys.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say a bit breathlessly. Then I sit beside Gram. “Stop badgering my friend.”
“Friend, my ass,” she mutters. “I’d bet a dollar to a donut that he’s more than a friend.”
I give her a playful tap on the top of her bony hand. “Don’t be fresh.”
Rhys sips his lemonade before setting his glass on the side table. He walks over to kneel in front of Gram. Eye level with her, he tilts his head, studying my withered grandmother with her ashen, wrinkled skin and body that can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. Nikki comes daily, but she can only do so much. She’s not a miracle worker. Once the blood clots formed, it became a battle against time. We’re fighting the clots with blood thinners, but the medication created tiny tears that caused internal bleeding. She had reparative surgery, but it was only a temporary fix. By now, she’s been in and out of the hospital enough times to see the writing on the wall. My grandmother is on a one-way path, and although I know where it leads, it doesn’t mean I’m prepared to reach the end of it—even though Millie Benson sure as hell is.
Gram is done.
I’m not ready to be alone.
What a quandary.
“I like you,” Rhys states.
Gram’s smug expression is a riot. “I don’t give a shit.”
Rhys narrows his eyes on her. “I think you do.”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Because you’re not as crotchety as you want people to think you are.”
Gram purses her grooved lips and glares at Rhys for a long minute before snapping, “You got me figured out, don’t you, boy?”
“Takes a stubborn soul to know a stubborn soul.”
“Muffin, where’d you say you found this one?” she asks me without taking her eyes off Rhys.
“She built me on an app.”
Rhys’s honesty has me muttering an exasperated, “Seriously?”
“You didn’t add ‘liar’ when you made me, Charlotte,” he says smoothly.
“Noted for next time,” I quip, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead on the spot from the glare he slides my way.
But Gram, bless her, breaks the tension between us when she nods slowly, purposefully. “Yep, I believe it.” Then she turns to me. “Scar’s a good touch, Muffin. He’d be too pretty without it.” She asks Rhys, “So, you gonna tell me your name, or do I gotta guess it?”
“Rhys Ravenstone.”
Gram bursts out laughing. “That fucking figures. I’m Millicent Benson. My friends call me Millie.Youbetter call me Millie.”
Rhys cracks a ghost of a grin. He grabs Gram’s hands. “Millie, when did you last go outside?”
“Fucked if I know.”
Panicking, I flick my gaze to the door and then back to Rhys. “She doesn’t go outside. God forbid she falls, or?—”
