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“Zip what?” Gramps asks, walking in with Marcus at his side. Marcus had been showing him some kind of trading software for the past twenty minutes, and the two of them look thick as thieves.
“Nothing,” Grandma says with a surreptitious grin at me. Facing the men, she says briskly, “Let’s just sit and eat.”
17
Marcus
I never thought I’d say it, but I’m in love with Emma’s grandparents. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had grandparents of my own—or normal parents, for that matter—but this long weekend with Emma and her family counts among the best days of my life. Maybe even the best, because I can’t recall the last time I’ve had such a prolonged sense of well-being.
Mostly, of course, it’s due to Emma herself. Each night since my arrival here, I’ve gorged myself on her sweet, lush body, feasting on her without restraint. I’ve had her in our bed, inside the shower, up against a wall, and even on the floor, when we didn’t make it all the way to the bed one evening. But as wonderful as that has been, I’ve derived nearly as much enjoyment from the simple pleasure of falling asleep with Emma in my arms—and waking up still holding her, breathing in her warm, delicious scent. The bone-deep contentment I experienced that first night with Emma wasn’t a fluke; it’s there each time I hold her.
And Emma’s family has added another layer to that feeling, a sense of belonging I didn’t realize I’d been missing. Even as a child, I knew better than to rely on anyone but myself, and though I never had trouble making friends, most of those friendships had been light and casual, barely skin deep. Same for my relationships with adults. Even Mr. Bond, the second-grade teacher who’d become my mentor, hadn’t really seen past the confident demeanor and the cloak of ambition I’d worn as shields.
But somehow, Emma’s grandparents have. Mary doesn’t bring up my past again, but each time her gaze falls on me, it’s soft and warm, holding a wealth of gentle understanding. She fusses over me just like she does over her husband and granddaughter, constantly feeding me, worrying whether I’m warm enough or cool enough, if the coffee I downed at dinner will keep me up at night. And Ted, in his own gruff way, is just as kind, making me wonder what it would’ve been like to have an older man in my life who wasn’t just a mentor but a friend, someone to talk to about things both minor and important.
Someone like a father… or a grandfather.
“I wish you two didn’t have to leave already,” Ted tells me over breakfast Sunday morning, and I smile regretfully, wishing the same thing. This holiday weekend has been an interlude out of time, a sun-soaked break from the reality of my nonstop, high-stress life. The parks, the beach, the warm, humid air—I feel rejuvenated by it all, refreshed in a way I haven’t experienced in years. And it’s not because I didn’t work this weekend. I did. Despite all the outings and family time, I got nearly as much done over the past couple of days as I normally do on the weekends. The difference is, it was mostly with Emma at my side. And she was there when I went to bed and woke up, her dimpled smile greeting me, her soft arms embracing me whenever I reached for her.
With her grandparents as a buffer, the residual tension between us melted away, her resistance to me fading until it was as if my stupid mistake of staying away from her had never happened in the first place. She didn’t even object when I paid for everyone’s lunch at the Italian restaurant, though I did find a twenty lying prominently on my wallet later that evening.
Once we’re back in New York, it will be different, I can tell. The next big battle—getting Emma to move in—is already brewing. When I came out of the bathroom this morning, I caught a glimpse of apartment listings on her laptop screen before she closed the computer—which means my ploy with her landlady is both working and not.
My kitten is planning to move but on her own. Despite our growing closeness over the past four days, she’s still afraid to trust me, to let me fully into her life.
“Marcus, what time are you flying out?” Mary asks, refilling my cup with more of her signature Colombian brew—a coffee so good my butler has already ordered it for me. “I assume it’s again out of Daytona?”
“That’s right.” I smile at her. “I told my pilot to have the plane ready by three p.m., so Emma and I would be able to stay for lunch.”
“Wait, what?” Emma looks up from her omelet. “You mean, you’d be able to stay for lunch. My flight is at 12:45, so Gramps and I have to leave for Orlando in an hour.”
