What kind of grandson says something like that?
Landon took my hand. “It’s not.”
I sniffled.
“It’s okay.”
He pulled closer to try to kiss me, but I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I—”
Landon bit his lip. “No. It’s okay.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably Dad,” he said.
But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Mr. Edwards standing there.
It was Chip.
“Oh. Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He ran his hand through his hair. It was messy and smushed from his helmet. He looked past my shoulder and nodded at Landon.
“How’s it going?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah.” He twisted his lips back and forth. “The guys all signed this for you.” He pulled a card out of his messenger bag. “We missed you.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t know why, but the card made me want to cry again, and I hadn’t even opened it.
I never thought I’d have the kind of friends who’d get me cards when my grandfather died.
“How’d we do?”
“We won.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” Chip shifted back and forth on his feet. “Your nails look nice.”
I looked down at my hands.
“It’s a good color on you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Um.”
“I’d better get home. But. Well. If you need anything?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Chip.”
“See you,” Landon said from behind me. He stepped onto the stoop and wove our hands together.
Chip looked from Landon to me and back. “Yeah. See you.”
We watched him bike away.
