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I’ve been back for almost two weeks. Since it’s Anton’s off season, he brings in dinner for me every night at ten and we eat together on my break, and then he picks me up at the end of my shift.
Most nights, we go to his place. I still spend a couple nights a week at Anita’s, though, because I know she needs my share of the rent.
I didn’t come back to Lucky Seven for a couple weeks after Dix passed away. I needed time to mourn. I didn’t know Dix for a long time, but he meant a lot to me.
He’s been gone for a month. Anton’s apartment feels emptier now. I sit in his chair sometimes, working on the word search books he used to do. I brought him a stack one day and he told me they were stupid and pointless. When he started working on them, I didn’t call him on it.
The cursive notes he wrote in the margins make me smile, and occasionally tear up. They’re classic Dix, things like politicians are fucking babies and I’d give my left nut for a smoke.
My grandpa has been declining, and I ache at the thought of losing someone else I love. I got a good chunk of money in the divorce, and I also get monthly maintenance, but every penny of that goes into an account for my grandpa’s care.
In between customers, I wipe down the bar and polish already-dry, gleaming glasses. I’m really fucking nervous, because I decided when I woke up with Anton wrapped around me this morning, his dick like a steel rod, that it’s time.
We’re both beyond ready for sex, and I promised myself I wouldn’t go there until I told him my truth. I should’ve told him already. It’s terrifying to be in love with him and still have this secret that could ruin everything.
“You’re jumpy tonight,” Janice says to me as I carry glasses back to the kitchen after we’ve closed.
“I’m okay.”
“Your boyfriend’s not being a dick, is he?”
To others, her gruff tone could come off bitchy. But I know Janice—she’s being protective of me. And I appreciate it.
“No, he’s great.”
“Good.” She turns to go into her office and I say, “Hey—there is something.”
“What is it?”
“My grandpa is sick. He has Alzheimer’s. He’s started going downhill, and I wanted to let you know that if things take a bad turn, I’ll need to be with him. I don’t want to leave you high and dry, especially when I just came back.”
“I get it. Just keep me posted.”
She retreats to her office then, and I go finish my end of the night cleaning. When I walk out the front door, Anton’s waiting nearby, leaning against the passenger side door of his Range Rover. When he smiles, I smile back and throw my arms around him.
“Hey, babe,” he says softly. “Miss me in the past few hours?”
“Yes,” I admit.
It kinda sucks working during his off season. But I know I’m doing the right thing for myself this time, and that feels good. He’s adjusted his schedule around mine and put up blackout curtains in his bedroom so we can sleep ‘til noon, which is necessary when we make out until the sun rises.
I don’t say much on the ride back to his place. I’m trying to find the words to tell him I can’t have kids. Every idea I come up with feels wrong.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he pulls up to the front door of his building.
“Yeah.” I give him a reassuring smile as the valet comes out and takes the car.
“You sure?”
I slip my hand into his. “Yeah. I just want to take a quick shower when we get upstairs.”
“Want some tea?”
“That would be great.”
I take a hot shower, wishing I could wash away the mistakes of my past. And if not the mistakes themselves, the shame some of them seem to have saddled me with for life.
Everything’s still the same once I’m dried off and dressed in clean clothes, though. I know what my grandparents meant now when they talked about getting older and wiser. You can’t change your past, but you can learn from it. I know I’ve at least gained wisdom from my screw ups.
Anton’s waiting on the couch when I walk into the living room, two steaming mugs of tea in front of him. He takes his unsweetened; I like lots of sugar in mine.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, picking up one mug and handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, then another.
“Sit with me,” he says, patting the spot next to him on the couch.
“I need to sit here.” I walk over to Dix’s recliner and set my mug next to it.
“You don’t want to sit by me?” Anton sounds a little hurt.
I take Dix’s afghan off the back of the chair and sit down, unfolding the blanket in my lap.
