“How’s your mobility?” I pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “I’m assuming they’re getting you up as much as possible? Having you walk longer lengths? Working on your balance?” My grandmother didn’t do vulnerable well. She was a woman who had built an empire entirely onher own during a time when that was impossibly difficult and almost unheard of. There was no weakness—she was all strength. Therefore, I knew this conversation wasn’t easy for her, so I added, “You know, given my sports background, I’ve been through this many times with my teammates. Blown-out shoulders, torn knees, ruptured Achilles. I’m extremely familiar with this process. I’ve seen even the toughest—like you—have to endure some of the hardest surgeries and comebacks.”
The head of her bed was mostly upright, putting her in a slightly reclined position where she was fully dressed, sitting on top of her bedding with a blanket over her. A blanket that was normally on her couch at home. She pulled it back and lifted her loose pant leg well past her knee. “She looks good, doesn’t she?” She rubbed her thigh. “I have many, many miles to put on her, and I’m almost ready to test her out.”
This was the first time, out of all the times I’d visited her here, that she had shown me her knee. “Wow, it looks great. Minimal swelling. And your incision—whoever stitched you did a fantastic job. I’ve seen some gnarly scars, and it looks like yours is going to be mild.”
“That’s because Dr. Coffey, my plastic surgeon, stitched me. I requested him to close me up after surgery. I’ve seen some of the scars that knee replacements leave.” She wiggled her finger at me. “I refuse to let my body look like that.”
“Grandma, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you in shorts.”
She then waved her hand. “My dear boy, having a modest scar is for me, not anyone else.”
At eighty-four, with more money than she could ever spend in ten lifetimes, she could have anything she wanted.
I chuckled. “All right, that’s fair.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t come here after school so you could bring my Ben. How is he?” She held her chest.
Had I brought Ben, nothing would have gone down in the supply room, and I had a motive when I walked through the door of this rehab center.
A motive I wasn’t going to share with my grandmother.
“He has something after school today, it wouldn’t have worked,” I told her. “Not if I was going to make it here during Emily’s shift. But he’s doing well, recovered from the button incident, and an endless ball of energy.”
“Ah, yes, my lovely Emily. Have you had a chance to speak to her?” Her brows raised, her head tilting down as though she were looking at me over the frame of her glasses, but she no longer had them on.
“I have.”
She silently stared at me for a few moments. “Wonderful.” She reached for something beside her and continued, “Your brother is quite smitten with Maya. Something tells me those two are in it for the long haul.”
“Long haul, yes, I’d say so.” I ran my hand over the top of my head, not remembering if I’d checked my hair in the restroom, since I was positive Emily had grabbed it more than once. “Jordan doesn’t get this way about women. To hear the things he’s been saying about Maya, I’m impressed with how much he’s changed. She’s good for him.”
“And you’d be good for someone, too, you know.”
My head dropped. “Grandma ... come on.”
“I can’t help myself.” Her hand moved to mine, causing me to look up. “I just hate to see you single for this long. Ben is seven, Gavin.”
I took a deep breath.
I wasn’t getting into this with her.
Grandma and my mother were the same. They openly voiced their desire for me to settle down and get married. As a parent, I understood why they thought this way. You wanted your child happy. You wanted them to have every dream come true.
But I was fucking happy.
I’d just gotten off in the supply room two wings over from here.
There was no reason to change anything about my life.
“I don’t need to be dating or married. Between you, my mother, and Jenny, Ben has three women who are incredible role models. Please don’t worry, my son wants for nothing. He’s the happiest boy.”
“But are you the happiest father, given that you’re not sharing your life with someone?” She squeezed my wrist. “I’m your grandmother. It’s my job to ask these kinds of questions.”
She didn’t ask every time I visited—whether it be here or at her town house or a family gathering—but she asked enough.
My patience regarding this conversation was thin as hell, so I offered, “I’m sharing my life with Ben, that’s more than enough,” and I didn’t plan on saying another word about it.
She stroked her thumb over my skin. “I hope someday very soon there’s more than one name listed in that sentence.”
