Page 35 of Freefall

And just when you think you’ve found the light at the end of the tunnel—the little bit of green peeking out from the sea of gray—your brush slips, and then it’s gone again.

11

NATE

“At least she gave me a great-grandchild,” Gram says, pointing in Emory’s direction with a slightly arthritic finger. Emory shoots me a smug look as she sits beside our grandmother. “Although you never bring the boy to visit me.”

Her tone turns accusatory, and I might think it’s funny that she praises Emory only to admonish her the next breath if it doesn’t serve as a painful reminder of her condition. Emory and I exchange a look, this one filled with concern. Our grandmother, the woman who stepped in and raised us after our mother died and our father couldn’t be bothered to take care of his own children, is losing her mind. I don’t mean that to sound insensitive. Call it whatever you want—early-onset dementia, Alzheimer’s, memory loss—they’re all euphemisms for the same thing. She’s losing the part of herself that makes her who she is. She has good days and bad. Sometimes she tears apart her room at the assisted living facility looking for her glasses when they’re on the top of her head. That’s a good day. Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am or who Emory is. She asks for her dead husband and her dead daughter over and over until she exhausts herself and falls asleep, confused tears clinging to her cheeks. Those are the bad days.

Today is somewhere in between. She knows who we all are, but she doesn’t remember her great-grandson visiting a couple of days ago.

“I’ll bring him soon,” Emory says softly. Luke comes up behind her, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“I won’t hold my breath,” Gram sasses. “And Nathan? What’s your excuse? Did you or did you not recently turn thirty?”

Of course, she remembers that.

“I did, Gram.”

Her weathered blue eyes scan me from head to toe. “And?”

“And I love you, and we should go sit outside. It’s beautiful.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as Emory stands, extending a hand to help her up. “You always were good at deflecting. Carbon copy of your father, I swear.”

The words sting, not because I hate being compared to my father, but because I know it’s true. I’m lying to every goddamn person in this room, myself included. I did give her a great-grandchild. It was right there in black and white.

Probability of paternity: 99.99%

Daisy is my daughter.

Gram’s great-granddaughter.

But I can’t tell them when I haven’t even fully processed it myself yet.

My grandmother has either forgotten her frustration with me or decided to let it go, threading her arm through mine as the four of us walk to the gardens at the back of the facility. We play Gram’s favorite card game for a while, and it feels like it’s turning into a good day for her.

Emory and I try to visit her at least once a week, either on our own or together, but this is the first time I’ve been here with her and Luke together. As much as I hated the idea of my sister dating my best friend, I have to admit they’re good together. They’re happy. More importantly, she’s safe with him.

Luke has his demons, but he’s proved himself over and over. First with Taylor back in high school, then Emory’s ex, which nearly cost him his freedom.

Taylor almost cost me mine.

I still think about him sometimes. How quickly everything went to shit. How one bad night can follow you for years, even when you think you’ve left it behind. If Luke hadn’t stepped in that night, I would’ve gone too far. He’s pulled me back from the brink more than once, and if anyone can protect my sister as fiercely as I would, it’s Luke Collins.

Just as Gram’s about to win her third round, Luke’s phone starts buzzing, and he pats her shoulder before getting up to take the call.

“You went and got a real man, Emmy,” she says with a wink. “Bet he’s the giving type too, like your grandfather.”

“Gram!” Emory chides as I clear my throat because that’s wrong on so many different levels that I’m not even sure which one to choose first.

Gram doesn’t seem to care. She still has a dreamy look in her eye—as if she’s reliving a private memory—when Luke returns.

“Sorry to cut this short,” he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “That was the preschool. Row has a fever.”

“No! Not again.” Emory looks like she might cry. “This is the third time this month.”

I, of course, have questions. Like, did she forget his jacket in the cold again? Has she taken him to the doctor? Is it normal for kids to get sick this often? But one look at Luke’s “don’t even go there” expression, and I decide against it.