“I should fix it,” I say. “I don’t even own a hammer, though. I can’t—” My voice trails off because the list of reasons I don’t do things is a mile long, and I can feel them all like stitches under my skin.
Grandma waves it off. “That table’s been crooked since your mother was alive. I keep meaning to prop it with a folded magazine.”
I run my hand along the wood, the seam of the leg cracked just enough to make it shift with every movement. My chest tightens. It’s not dangerous yet, but it’s one more thing on her long list of little repairs she pretends don’t matter.
But everything else feels better now. Better as in Grandma looks stronger, healthier, even. Nurse Ruth has been keeping up with her meds, making sure she eats, and it shows in the color back in her cheeks. For the first time in months, she doesn’t look like she’s fading.
And yet… When does this end? When does the good stretch out and stay instead of snapping back into something worse?
The thought curdles, pulling me under. I blink too fast, a sting building behind my eyes. Stupid. I tell myself it’s relief, but the truth creeps in anyway. What if this is it? What if this is as close to safe as I’ll ever feel, because there’s no Anton here? No green eyes watching from the shadows. No one pulling me back when the ground goes out beneath my feet.
How long does this last? A week? A month?
The ache is sharp and sudden, and before I can stop it, a tear slips down my cheek. I swipe it away fast, hoping Grandma didn’t see, pasting on a smile that feels stiff around the edges.
But my chest won’t settle. My pulse keeps tripping over itself like my body knows something my brain won’t name.
Great. Add “random weeper” to my growing list of personality flaws.
The last plate clinks into the rack, soap sliding down my wrist as I rinse away the suds. My stomach is full, my heart… heavier than I’d admit, and my brain already racing ahead.
Plan B. I need to get it tonight. Should’ve gotten it days ago. The Walgreens on Charleston is open, I could call a Grab, sneak out, pretend I’m just going home—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I freeze, a wet dish towel balled in my fist. Grandma looks up from her recliner, brow furrowed.
“Expecting someone?”
Nope. Not even a little.
The knocks come again, steady, deliberate.
I dry my hands, force my legs to move. When I pull open the door, the last person I expect is standing on the porch.
Anton.
Tall, broad, green eyes catching the porch light like they’ve been waiting for me. He steps inside without asking, gaze sweeping the living room like it’s a crime scene he needs to clear. His attention lingers on the wobbling table, the chipped doorframe, the faded carpet. Every flaw cataloged, filed, judged.
My heart kicks into double time. “What are you—?”
“Mary.” His voice is low, steady, and for some reason, my name sounds… safe in his mouth. Dangerous too, but safe in a way I can’t explain.
Grandma blinks from her chair, clearly confused. “And you are…?”
Before I can fumble out a half-truth, he answers with a faint dip of his head. “A friend.”
I nearly choke. Anton Malikov, professional menace, claiming friendship in my grandmother’s living room.
“Some friend,” Grandma mutters, eyeing his suit jacket and boots. “Doesn’t knock like a neighbor, I’ll tell you that much.”
Before I can reply, the door swings wider and chaos tumbles in.
Lev first, grinning like he’s auditioning for a toothpaste ad, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags.
“Hello, sunshine!” he beams at me, sweeping into the kitchen like he owns it. “Well, now I see where Mary gets it,” he announces, eyes twinkling at Grandma. “Class, charm, and the kind of presence that makes a man want to mind his manners.”
Grandma blinks, clearly caught off guard, then slowly turns to me. Her stare is the kind that used to stop me mid-sentence as a teenager.
