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From then on, it’s just Reese and his grandmother. Reese with Dante and Marcus. Reese all alone.
The thing that I like most is how Reese’s face opens and gets happier as the years go by. As if there was something deep and dark holding him back that he’s freed from when he pushes into his adult years. I wonder if it’s the lack of his father in his life. Maybe it’s hockey.
“You look so happy in these ones,” I say, pointing to the collection of pictures taken with Reese, Dante, and Marcus, all of them with sweat-slicked hair and busted noses, clutching their hockey sticks in one hand and trophies in the other.
“Yeah, that was the first playoff series we won with me starting at center,” Reese explains. He’s trying to act all cool and casual about it but I can hear the pride and excitement in his voice. It’s endearing. “First year on the team, first year starting, and first trophy. Lots of people said the rookie wouldn’t be able to do it, but I fuckin’ did it.”
“Had him in my ear all that season with self-doubt,” his grandmother chimes in.
“Come on, I wasn’t that bad.”
“Oh, you certainly were.” His grandmother folds her arms. “Had such a good track record when you were in juniors, but then you got into the big leagues and saw that there were guys that had been doing this since before he was born. Realized he couldn’t just scrape by on his natural talent alone. But I always knew that my Reese had it in him.”
She beams. I can feel the love and pride seep out of her with the way that she looks at Reese.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about that,” I say, looking at him.
He’s sheepish, putting his hand behind his head like a kid caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. “It wasn’t really a year that I like looking back on,” he mumbles. “After that is when I really spiraled into partying. The fame, the success—all of it went straight to my head, as you can imagine.”
I can. The Reese I know is a self-confident man. He doesn’t question his skills or his abilities; he just does what he sets out to do. To think that that wasn’t always who he was is shocking. But it’s a part of him that made him into the man that I love now.
It’s the cracks in us that let the light in, as my mama always says. Reese has more cracks than most. He’s got more light than most, too, though.
“I think a little humility is a good look on you.”
“Ha! You tell him. I think he could use a heap more sometimes. He gets full of himself even now.” His grandmother gives him an “and don’t you even think about disagreeing with me” look.
Reese laughs. “Cut me some slack, Grams.”
“How about I cut you some pie instead? I made lunch for us.”
I perk up at the idea of food. I was so distracted with getting here, I never ate anything before we left. But now, my stomach is rumbling.
“Food sounds great!” Then I flush, realizing just how loud and enthusiastic I am when his grandmother gives me an amused look. “Sorry. Just really hungry.”
“I’ll bet you are. I’ll get y’all sorted?—”
“Oh, I can help,” I offer. “I don’t mind.”
His grandmother looks like she’s going to say no before thinking otherwise. She smiles and nods at me. “Sure thing. Give us girls some time to chat by ourselves.”
Reese winces. “Come on, Grams, don’t give her the third degree.”
“Only person in this house ever needing the third degree is you, grandson. I just want to talk to her is all.”
My heart thumps in my chest. My end game here was getting to snack while we prepped food. I didn’t realize I was stepping into the lion’s den. She may look like a sweet old Southern grandma, but Grams has some bite to match her bark.
I give Reese a nervous look as I hand Violet off reluctantly. He presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. “Go on. I got her.”
I don’t want to let my little angel go, but there’s no turning back now. I relent and follow his grandmother into the kitchen. The warm, homey scent that filled the house when we came in intensifies when we’re inside. Ham, baked beans, fresh cooked vegetables—all are on the stove or already cooling in dishes spread out on the countertops. She must have started cooking as soon as Reese said that we were on our way. Either that or she regularly feeds an army of elephants.
“Ah, this all smells so good.” My mouth is already watering. “Thank you so much, ma’am.”
She looks at me sideways, perplexed, before she bursts out in laughter. “Please call me Grams. You’re with Reese. There’s no need to indulge in any of that silly ‘yes, ma’am, no, ma’am’ stuff. My home is your home, dear.”
I’m a little surprised, to be honest. She’s never been cold to me, but being cordial in Reese’s house versus in her own are two different things.
“A-alright,” I stammer. “Let me help put some plates together, Mrs.—er, Grams.”
