“But seeing how happy it made you when you thought we might be a couple,” I continue, “we wanted you to know the truth.”
“Oh, my dears.” Meema’s eyes fill with tears, and she reaches out to grasp both our hands. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
The genuine joy on her face makes it impossible to regret the web of lies we’re weaving. Right now, there’s a spark in her eyes that’s been missing for years.
“When did this happen?” She doesn’t let go of our hands.
Sydney jumps in. “It started two months ago, after I drove you to chemo. I went to Boise to fill Brooks in on everything with you, and he and I had a long talk about... everything. The past, the present. We realized we’d been fighting our feelings for years.”
“Years!” Meema crows. “I knew it! On Zoom last night, I told the Beaver Bookies, ‘Those two have chemistry,’ and all the ladies agreed!”
The Beaver Bookies are the local book clubbers… and they meet via Zoom now?
Sydney’s hand twitches in Meema’s grasp, and I can tell she’s struggling not to look at me. I focus on a point just above Meema’s head, afraid that if our eyes meet, we’ll both lose it.
“And now,” Meema’s voice takes on a scheming quality I know all too well, “Sydney can move in here to help you with your shoulder!”
Sydney makes a choking sound that she disguises as a cough. “Move in? I don’t think—”
“It makes perfect sense,” Meema barrels on, releasing our hands to clap hers together. She looks at me. “You can barely change your own shirts with that injury,” she says, pivoting to Sydney, “and you’re here most days, anyway. Plus, it would ease my mind knowing someone’s taking care of him when I’m... not feeling my best.”
The implication hangs in the air—when she gets worse or passes away—and that does it. Syd and I are toast—we can’t say no now.
But feeling guilty, I say, “Meema, Sydney has her own place,” even though I know it’s futile.
“Nonsense! That tiny townhome? With the neighbors who play death metal at all hours?” Meema shakes her head firmly. “No, it’s decided. Sydney will stay here. After all, you two are in love! It’s only natural.”
Sydney shoots me a desperate look, clearly hoping I’ll find a way out of this. But how can I without revealing our lie? And truthfully, a small, selfish part of me is relieved at the thought of someone else being here to help with Meema if things get worse.
“Actually,” Sydney says finally, her voice careful, “I could stay for a while. To help out.”
The relief that floods Meema’s face is worth whatever awkwardness this arrangement will cause. “Wonderful!”
Sydney forces a smile. “I can take the guest room—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, dear,” Meema interrupts. “I know what goes on. You and Brooks can share his room.”
Now it’s my turn to choke on nothing. Sharemy room? The whole point of our ground rules was to maintain distance, and now she’s saying we should sleep together? Well, not sleep together, but... sleep together.
Meema’s eyes twinkle. “I may be old, but I’m not naïve. You two will just end up sneaking into each other's rooms anyway, and that’ll wake me up.”
Before either of us can respond to this bombshell, she pushes herself up from her chair with surprising energy and shuffles over to the antique chest in the corner. After a moment of digging, she pulls out a statue that looks like a wooden dick with a face.
“This,” she says, holding it up proudly, “is the Kingston family fertility statue.”
Sydney goes rigid beside me, her face crimson. “The... what now?”
“The fertility statue!” Meema repeats, as if that’ll make it less messed up. “It’s been in the family for generations. Any couple who sleeps near it will be blessed with children within the year.”
She hobbles over and places it in Sydney’s lap. Sydney holds it like it might bite her, careful to touch as little of it as possible.
“That’s... wow.” Sydney’s voice is strangled. “What a unique heirloom.”
“I’ve been saving it for the right moment.” Meema pats Sydney’s cheek affectionately. “And now here you are, with my Brooksie. It’s perfect.”
I can’t look at Sydney. If I do, I might laugh, and I can’t do that. “Thanks, Meema,” I manage, my voice gruff. “We’ll... put it to good use.”Oh, Jesus.
“See that you do.” She winks.
