I move before I’ve decided to.
“Gimme your thoughts,” he says, and I blink at the organised mess of cards.
“I’m not sure that’s how you’re supposed to play solitaire?”
Grandpa sneaks a card from the back of a pile and flips it with glee that turns to slouched shoulders. “Yet, I’m still losing.”
“Not if you play by It’s Thursday rules and slip those fours on those queens.”
Grandpa squints at me again and reaches over to pull out the adjacent chair. He clasps my wrist around the blue fish band and steers me to sit. His touch is warm, firm, and just that has my breath hitching. He cups a hand around his mouth and doesn’t lower his voice at all. “Your older brother is a stickler for rules.”
Except moral ones.
I don’t make eye contact. But Ifeelthe weight of Trent’s attention, a shift of air against my profile, a slow burn at my periphery. Watching.
“Anyone have a coin?” Grandpa asks, patting his pockets.
And this is my moment. It’s one of the useless things I do exceptionally well. I lean in, frowning. “What’s that behind your ear?”
I reach and produce a shiny fifty-cent piece.
Grandpa chortles and snaps it up and into a twisting flip, while Trent stares at me with folded arms.
“You’re not missing out,” I say. “Check your pocket.”
Grandpa forgets to call his toss, prodding a finger in Trent’s direction. “Do as Ika says.” He watches on, rapt, as Trent pulls out the contents of his pocket, including his keys and... a fifty-cent coin.
Actual surprise flickers over his face.
“How?”
I flick another coin between my fingers, slow, easy, a well-practiced rhythm. “A magician never gives away his secrets.”
Grandpa claps the table with a laugh and tosses his fifty-cent piece again. Whatever rule he’s using now gets him out of his rut and when he wins, he pats the back of my hand and then eyeballs his organic whatever. “Now you’re back, you’ll slip me something stronger, won’t ya?”
“Grandpa,” Trent warns.
“What’s the point having a year left if it tastes like this?” A point Grandpa doesn’t quite underscore as he tips every last remaining drop from the pot into his cup. And then guzzles it down.
I tap a fist over a smirk.
“Let an old man have his way,” Grandpa says to Trent, and winks at me.
Trent picks up the emptied teapot and carries it to the kitchen. “I’ll let you have your way with anything else. Not this.”
A gleam hits Grandpa’s eyes and he throws me a mischievous smirk. “Taken as license then.” He grins. “Go marry your boyfriend already.”
The teapot clatters into the sink and Trent chases after it. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, Grandpa. Not for years.”
Grandpa frowns and rubs his brow. “Right, right. Slipped my aged noggin.” He leans into me and whispers, “Set him up with one of your friends. Someone cute, with just enough bite.”
Something crashes in the kitchen. Then Trent’s patient voice, “I don’t need?—”
Grandpa chortles. “All work and no play makes Trenty a dull boy.”
Trenty?
My gaze snaps across the room; Trent is whipping open a cupboard and pulling a whiskey bottle from the top shelf. He pours a good slosh into a cup and sets it before his grandpa’s smug wrinkles. “You’re right. Live it up large. Go with a grin.”
