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“We can go now if you want. We don’t have to wait?—”
Before I can even finish the sentence, Olivia has bolted out of my arms to get ready.
Chuckling, I shoot a text to Grams. Heads up. Olivia and I are on the way.
* * *
We pile into the car, with Samson rolling in his own behind us. The whole drive, Olivia is buzzing with glee right beside me. She keeps checking her phone, pulling it out and immediately putting it back in her pocket every few minutes. It’s like she’s trying to speed up time, because that’ll get us to Violet quicker.
I don’t blame her.
I miss my little girl, too.
When we finally pull into Grams’ driveway, Olivia is the first one out of the car before the tires have even stopped turning. Samson is still pulling in behind us when she bolts out and practically runs to the front door.
I limp along behind her as Samson immediately begins a circuit of the grounds to check for potential threats. I appreciate his thoroughness. I doubt anything will happen here, but no precaution is too much.
The one thing that does surprise me is Olivia waiting for me to ring the doorbell. When she sees my confusion, she sheepishly says, “I didn’t want to be rude and knock without you here.”
I laugh. “Grams isn’t gonna care. She’s met you.”
“A couple times, and not nearly long enough to just show up at her front door.”
I click my tongue. “As she would say, you overestimate her number of fucks left to give.”
I knock on the door. Country music is on full blast, just like always. Southern twang and acoustic guitar filter through from inside. I roll my eyes and knock again, louder, and jam the doorbell a few times for good measure.
“Hold on, hold on!” My grandmother’s voice somehow manages to break through the intensity of her music. The volume goes down a hair and, a few moments later, Grams appears in front of us.
“It’s about dang time!” she screeches happily. “You act like you can’t visit your Grams and then you give me hardly no notice! I oughta wring you up on a clothesline to dry.”
Even as she’s bitching, she wraps me up in an oxygen-depleting bear hug that shouldn’t be possible for a woman her size or stature. I give one right back to her, pulling her up off her feet, only because I know that if I don’t hug her properly, she’ll make me do it again and again until she’s satisfied.
“Sorry. I know last time wasn’t really a visit…”
“‘Wasn’t really a visit,’ he says. As if being all secretive is just a normal Tuesday for the hockey star.” Grams rolls her eyes and it’s then that her attention pulls to Olivia. She smiles, gesturing her over. “You get a hug, too, sweetheart. Don’t be shy.”
Olivia looks surprised, glancing up at me before going into Grams’ embrace. Grams squeezes the daylights out of her, just like she did me, then holds her at arms’ length and gives her a thorough up-and-down.
“Well, just look at you. It’s been but a hot minute and you’re as skinny as the day is long. Is my no-good grandson keeping you cooped up and locked away?”
I wince. Grams doesn’t know about the cabin. Will Olivia spill?
To her ever-lasting credit, Olivia remains a champ. She brushes off the question with a carefree laugh, almost completely free of undertones suggesting that I have in fact been keeping her quite literally cooped up and locked away. “Things have just been busy. Life, y’know?” she says breezily.
Grams snorts. “Do I know? Of course I know. Come on in now—I can practically see you itching out of your shorts to see our little angel.”
With a laugh, Olivia charges inside. I follow behind. Grams’ place is a bear hug in house form. Like a warm blanket pulled over you. I get so used to the mansion or the penthouse, but being somewhere that smells like baked cookies and fresh-picked daisies just hits different.
As we’re walking over the threshold, an excited peal of laughter emerges from one of the rooms. Before any of us can say anything, Olivia’s following the sound. She disappears around a corner and Grams and I are left looking at each other, amused.
“She really loves that little girl, doesn’t she?”
“More than you will ever know.”
Grams and I tag along, eventually coming to the living room. Violet’s in a baby bouncer, squealing with delight at whichever cartoon police dog is serving up some kid-friendly justice on the television.
Olivia is quick to scoop her up and Violet is just as quick to change the object of her affection from the Pawfficer to Olivia. Her tiny hands clutch and grab at Olivia’s hair, her face, her clothes. For everyone that says babies aren’t expressive or don’t understand emotions, I’d ask them to take one damn look at the way my little girl gazes at Olivia and tell me that there’s anything other than love reflected in her little eyes.
