Thankfully, we’re interrupted by the server coming to take our order. This one’s a blond woman, who greets us in a singsong voice and repeats our order back to us as if we’ve ordered the best thing ever!
(Trust me, there was an exclamation point.)
Grandma asks approximately fifty questions about the menu. Most of them are about the regular menu items, so I know she’s just testing the waitress, who starts to shift and gives me wide eyes, searching for a rescue. I throw her a bone and ask for a few more minutes.
When the waitress leaves, Grandma eyes me. She holds the silence too long and there is about a sixty-forty split between her ragging on me more or her changing the subject to complain about the housing situation again.
I cross my arms and rest my elbows on the table, bracing myself for what she’s going to dish out next.
But then her face shifts and oh no. I forgot about the other part. It’s not a sixty-forty split. It’s maybe a 58-38-4 split. There’s a four percent chance I’m going to be reminded of why I love this woman so much.
“Rory,” she says gently.
Yup, the four percent is making an appearance despite all odds.
“You don’t like to think about it, and I get that. You’ve thought about death too much in your life.”
I look away. It’s not often that either of us bring up the car accident anymore.
“But someday I will die. Probably soon. Maybe not.” She shrugs. “But probably. And I just want you to be happy.”
“I know, Grandma.”
She reaches over and pats my hand twice, and then grips it. I look at her, and we smile at each other. I’m lucky to have had such a strong, fun woman raise me. It’s not every grandparent that can look after a ten-year-old.
“Besides . . .” She releases my hand and pats it again. “You need to get laid.”
Rory
* * *
After lunch, we get pedicures in the salon in the community building, and then we go upstairs to her apartment and I help her pay some bills because she refuses to use autopay.
Grandma’s black cat, Bartholomeow, makes an appearance just in time to sit on the papers I’m trying to read and hiss at me.
At five thirty I drop Grandma off at the nicer restaurant in the building and make the drive over to Morgan’s bar. I’ll be back in a couple hours to stay the night, but Grandma and I need a break after spending all day with each other.
Plus, when the residents show up to dinner alone, they seat all the singles at a big table. I always hope this ends in a friendship, but Grandma said there’s a new couple who’ve moved into the community on the lower age range and she’s hoping to get in good with them on the off chance the wife dies.
Which sounded more like a threat than I’d like to think about.
I pull open the door to On the Rocks and walk inside. I get about halfway to the bar before I realize that something’s wrong.
Something’s really wrong.
It’s quieter, for one. People are huddled together talking in low whispers. The music’s too mellow for the vibe Morgan usually goes for.
But also, Morgan’s not front and center. It takes me a moment to find him talking to a couple of people down the bar. Like he can feel my gaze, he looks up and . . .
Oh no. That smile is about fifty percent of what it usually is.
Who died?
Morgan leaves his friends and meets me at my seat, grabbing a bottle of Call of the Wild on the way.
“What’s going on?”
Morgan sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
