Thank you, thank you, thank you. I give a silent offering of gratitude to whoever or whatever is up there watching over us.
I want her to let me have the urn, but she’s holding it tightly, her fingers white. I wrap my arms around her and gently lift her off the balustrade. She’s so cold. Uncontrollable shivers rack her body.
I carry her into the living room. Under the better light, I can see her lips are blue. They’re quivering, and her teeth start to chatter.
“You’re freezing,” I say.
“So…are you,” she manages.
“Why don’t we get you warm?”
She nods jerkily, still holding on to the urn.
“Is it okay if I put the urn on the table?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I take it from her and place it in the center of the table. It must be horrifically painful to realize that a man of such vitality could be reduced to this.
“We need to get you out of those wet clothes,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Let me run the shower.” I go look for the bathroom in the tiny apartment so she can strip out of her T-shirt and jeans. The bathroom’s in the back with a shower stall so tiny, it could fit into a commercial airplane’s lavatory. I twist the faucet and give it a few moments, but the showerhead continues to spew icy water.
I go to Aspen. To my concern and annoyance, she’s still in the wet clothes, shivering.
“How long does it take for the water to heat up?” I ask.
“Not that long.”
“It’s still cold.”
“Oh yeah…” She blinks slowly. “The heater broke a couple of days ago.”
“The landlord hasn’t fixed it?” That’s gotta be illegal. I’m going to sue the bastard.
“I never had a chance to tell them.” She gives me a small shrug. “It didn’t seem that important. Cold showers aren’t that bad.”
“Well, you aren’t taking another one.” It’s incredibly sad that she was too lost in her grandfather’s death to even take care of herself. And I’m even more exasperated with myself for not having been here for her sooner. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Aspen
Grant opens my closet, then pulls up short at the first thing he sees. It’s the green dress I worethatday. He flinches, probably because he remembers what happened that morning in the office, and tries to move past it, but I extend a hand.
“That one’s fine. I’m not picky.” Certainly not about an outfit—well, about anything, really.
“Let’s find you something else,” he says, rummaging through my things and fishing out a gray sweatshirt and green yoga pants.Why are they in the closet?I’ve been meaning to wash them. “These’ll be warmer.”
“Okay.” I’m too cold and exhausted to care that they aren’t that clean. My skull’s numb from the frigid rain. Who would’ve thought L.A. could get so chilly? “You mind?” I say when he stays rooted to the spot, looking at me like I might do something to hurt myself.
“Sorry,” he says, then turns around and moves toward the kitchen, making sure to face the fridge.
I look at the tiny bed with its old, faded sheets and the nicked and wobbly dresser from my high school years. The only nice thing I can say about the space is that it’s tidy.
My fingers are stiff, and my head feels like it’s full of seaweed. The cheap tequila probably wasn’t a great idea, but I couldn’t resist when it called to me in the store.
