Another drumming knock sends me out of bed, though, scattering for something to throw on.
I grab a robe from the back of a chair and tie it around my waist as I head through the tiny apartment to the door and open it without looking.
There, standing on my front porch, is the sweetest old lady with the mind of a twenty-year-old master criminal.
Grandma Lark, or just Gran to the world.
She’s got a classic yellow raincoat over her flowery blue dress, rubber boots pulled up to her knees, and a steaming plate covered with a tea towel in her hands.
She’s in her seventies now, and although she sometimes plays the poor-old-lady card, she’s as spry as I am.
She could probably leave me in the dust.
Technically, she’s Elle’s grandma. We’re not blood related or anything.
But we’ve also been close for as long as I can remember, ever since I used to run up to her door as a kid and she’d bribe me with handfuls of chocolate for helping her pull weeds in her garden. Or the many timesmy bestie and I fought over coloring books and Gran would make us talk it out over tea.
“Gran! I wasn’t expecting you today.” I hide my surprise with a big smile.
She gives me a weird look, which—fine, I deserve. It’s not like her popping in is a rare occurrence.
If anything, it’s a weekly event. We only live a few houses apart, and she loves dropping by.
Mostly to gossip, the shameless old bird.
But I love her.
And I love the plate she pushes at me before she says a word, which smells like heaven. “I brought banana bread for breakfast. And flowers.”
I eye the bunch of flowers she’s handing over, obviously from her garden. They smell just as good as the bread.
I accept them with my brain ticking, trying to think of a way out of this. Brady is still in my room, dead to the world.
Maybe I can make it quick and usher her out before he wakes up.
Then again, it’s a risky game to ever push Gran outquickly.
But I can’t turn her away, or she’ll definitely suspect something’s up.
It’s a Sunday morning, not a day where I typically need to rush out for work—with the clinic closed.
“Get in here before you drown out there,” I say, making a point of yawning as I open the door wider to let her in.
It’s still raining steadily outside.
Brady’s shoes are still by the door, and I pick them up the second she’s turned her back, stuffing them under a cushion.
“Hmm? I suppose so. Time moves different when you’re old.”
“You’re only old in body, Gran! Not spirit.” I set her offerings on my small table, then grab a couple plates and a knife as she settles in without being asked. “Coffee?”
“I’m down to two cups a day, and I already had ’em. Anything more gives me rabbit shits.”
“Gran!”
“Like you said, old in body. I’ll have some tea if you’ve got it.” She cackles as she unwraps her latest baked masterpiece.
“Sure.” I put the kettle on the stove and bring out the French press for myself. Haven’t splashed money on a fancy coffee maker yet—not like Brady’s espresso machine—but I still like my coffee good.
