“Subtle, Meema.” I sip the scalding hot black coffee and hope Sydney didn’t spit in it.
“I don’t have time for subtlety anymore,” she says, completely unapologetic.
Sydney stands clearly uncomfortable. “Something to consider for sure. But I should get going—gotta face Marcus after the mating beaver digression.”
“Of course, dear.” Meema reaches for her hand, squeezing it with obvious affection. “You’ll come by tomorrow to help me with my photo albums?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Sydney leans down to hug her, and I catch a whiff of something lavender and subtle—not the overpowering perfume I’d expect from someone so... Sydney.
She straightens up and nods at me, all business again. “You, Brooksie. Party on Saturday, five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with my grandmother and the echo of her words in the suddenly quiet house.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” A sly smile plays at the corners of Meema’s mouth.
“That’s one way to put it.” I take a long sip of coffee, trying to process everything that just happened.
Sydney and Meema are friends.
Sydney’s been taking care of my grandmother while I’ve been gone.
Sydney can’t stand me, and the feeling is mutual, except...
Except there was something about the way she moved through this house, the way she knew exactly how Meemalikes her tea, the way she straightened that pillow without even thinking about it.
Something that got under my skin more than normal, and in a way I’m not about to analyze too closely.
I stare into my coffee, thinking about everything Sydney said.
About me not being here for Meema.
About my icy trail of shattered hearts.
About being an asshole since birth. Or in the womb.
She’s not wrong. But she doesn’t know the whole story.
I set my cup down quietly as Meema drifts off to sleep, exhausted by our brief interaction.
And in that quiet, I make a decision.
I’m going to try—really try—to be someone my grandmother can be proud of. And do everything I possibly can for her right now.
Even if it means dealing with Sydney Holt and all the complicated feelings she stirs up.
4
Breakfast of Champions
BROOKS
“You don’t have to hover like that,” Meema says, her voice still carrying sass. “I’m not going to keel over while you’re frying eggs.”
“I’m not hovering.” I’m totally hovering.
Once Meema wakes from her nap, I crack eggs with one hand into the cast-iron skillet that’s older than me; the sizzle fills her kitchen. The morning light catches the dust on the worn oak table where my grandmother sits wrapped in her shawl—the one I brought her from a tournament in Vancouver four years ago.
She looks small sitting there. Too small. Like someone hit the shrink button while I wasn’tlooking.
