“Not everyone can be as perfect as you, my dear.” The sarcasm drips from her voice. “Some of us mere mortals struggle with things like emotions and communication.”
I scoff, but there’s no heat behind it. This is our dance—she calls me on my shit, I pretend to be offended, and somehow, I end up feeling better. It’s always been this way, ever since I was a kid escaping to her house when things got too intense at home.
“Speaking of people who struggle with communication,” Meema continues, a gleam in her eye, “Sydney’ll be back tomorrow.”
I stab at my eggs. “Doesn’t she have her own grandmother to bother?”
“Helen Holt passed five years ago, as you very well know.” Meema gives me the look—the one that makes me feel two inches tall. “And Sydney doesn’t bother me. She’s my friend, and she helps me. She makes sure I take my meds, drives me to appointments, brings me groceries, and plays cards with me when I’m too tired to do anything else.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “I’m here now. I can do those things.”
“Yes, you are. Now.” She reaches across the table, her cool hand covering mine. “But she was here when you couldn’t be.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? She’s right. It pisses me off—not at Sydney, though it’s easier to direct my frustration her way, but at myself.
“She’s going to help me sort through some old albums,” Meema says, and she’s actually eating. “Try not to growl at her too much.”
“I don’t growl,” I say, which sounds suspiciously like a growl.
Meema laughs, and she looks more like herself—the woman who used to chase me around this kitchen with a wooden spoon when I’d steal cookie dough. “Oh, Brooksie. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Butshehas.
The laugh turns into a cough, and I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, getting her water, hovering again despite her protests. When the coughing subsides, she looks exhausted, the brief moment of normalcy gone.
“I’m fine,” she insists, waving me away. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
I take her plate, noting how little she’s eaten. A bad sign. “You need to eat more than that.”
“I will later. Just not hungry right now.” She adjusts her shawl again, a nervous habit that’s now more pronounced. “Would you help me to the living room? I want to start with my albums before Sydney comes to help me with them tomorrow.”
I offer my arm, trying not to wince when she leans on my bad shoulder. She weighs nothing, which terrifies me.
The Kingston women are supposed to be sturdy, formidable. My grandmother once carried me half a mile through the snow when I fell and twisted my ankle on the lake.
Now she needs help walking twenty feet to her favorite armchair.
“There,” she says as I adjust pillows behind her back. “Perfect. Now, be a dear and get those photo albums from the top shelf in the hall closet.”
I’m halfway to the closet when my phone buzzes.
I check it to see a text from Donny.
DONNY: I’m scoring the sportscaster position at KBVR! Nice. I got enough backers, and Marcus can’t say no to the $$. ?? Nobody knows yet.
Shit.That means Sydney’snotgetting it, and this news is going to crush her. She worked her ass off for the job—and I know because I’ve watched her out in all kinds of wild weather, reporting with a smile. And now, Donny’s rolling in with his big money and star power.
Ugh. I hate to do it, but I’ve got to warn Sydney, right? Meema would kill me if I didn’t.
After typing out a response to Donny, I get Sydney’s number from Meema’s phone. When I add her to mine, I see shedidtext me about Meema’s treatments, and I feel like shit. I thought it was some medical services spam.
Dammit.
She’s going to kill the messenger, the last thing I need.
5
The Beav Porn Star
