I suppress a grimace, already knowing how this is going to end.
“I don’t want any special treatment, boy,” Grandma snaps, right on cue. “I’ll wait my turn like anyone else.”
“Noted,” he replies with a nod, then throws me an apologetic wince.
We spend the next hour chatting—mostly with Grandma, then with James and Beth when they wander over. Apparently, there’s now an actual waiting list for their poker lessons. Poker is officially theinthing at Golden Age.
Beth offers to introduce my grandma to hers, but true to form, Grandma declines politely, folding her hands in her lap to indicate the matter is settled.
Eventually, James and Beth head back to the poker table, and Baptiste is intercepted by an old lady determined to sell him a sweater she knitted. He listens earnestly, nodding like it’s a serious business proposal, which gives me a few minutes alone with Grandma.
“You know,” I say quietly, “you should try to make some friends. Beth’s grandma seems nice.”
She frowns, genuinely taken aback. “What’s gotten into you? You always understood my need to be alone. Heck, you were like me. What’s changed? Are you becoming one of those needy people who can’t be seen without her posse?”
“Grandma,” I scold, shaking my head. “I don’t have a posse. And I still enjoy being alone. But I also like spending time with people now. It’s… nice. Sometimes.”
“Iamwith people,” she deadpans. “I’m with you.”
I tilt my head. “You know what I mean. It’s not like when we lived together, or even on the same street. I can’t come visit you every day.” And I don’t like seeing her all alone in this big room. Even if she’s used to it.
Her face tightens. “We still talk on the phone.”
“And I won’t stop calling,” I say quickly. “I just don’t want you to miss out. I want you to enjoy your time here.”
She narrows her eyes. “This is all Baptiste’s doing, isn’t it? All these changes.”
I glance toward him. He’s still trapped in the sweater pitch, which makes me smile. The old lady has stood up now, holding the knitted sweater up against his back like she’s fitting him for it.
“I guess in part, yeah,” I admit. “But it’s not like I’m being forced into it.” I smile faintly, thinking of what Caleb said when I ‘committed’ to being friends with them. “And I like him. I mean, it’s still early, and there are still plenty of ways I could end up runningaway from him, but… I don’t know. Baptiste seems different. He’s a nice guy.”
“So,” she says carefully, “it’s serious?”
“I don’t know.” The words are honest, unguarded. Part of me wants to say yes, but I’m terrified that the second I do, the spell will break. He’ll turn into a deranged criminal. Or a fraud. Or something else I didn’t see coming. Cautious with my next words, I say, “He’s good company.”
“Well, you be careful”, she says, settling into her chair. “You know people are full of surprises. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I nod. She’s right. I can’t let myself get carried away. This is still early, and so much can happen.
20
Baptiste
I’ve been praying for this day to end so I can finally see Harper again. We haven’t met up since our trip to Golden Age a few days ago, and I can’t deny I miss her. True to my promise to Glenda, I called Auntie Mumu, who was vacationing in the south of France, and I’m glad I did. Hearing her voice, her laughter, grounded me more than I expected.
At five o’clock sharp, I finally head to Warlington Lane, a small pedestrian street in Brooklyn where Beth and Marissa run their café, Rise & Grind—right across from Hayley, Alice, and Emma’s bookstore, No Shelf Control. The next door over is Deacon’s bar,owned by Alice’s husband and our unofficial headquarters. We’re having drinks there with everyone before dinner.
I park at the end of the street and notice Harper strolling down the sidewalk in the distance. I wanted to pick her up, but she said she’d come straight from work.
“Hey, you.” I smile as she gets closer. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” She leans in and kisses me, quick and soft. “I’m excited to check out this bar—and this entire street, to be honest. I’ve heard so much about it.”
We start walking down Warlington Lane. The late afternoon light is golden, bouncing off the brick façades, and the air is blanketed with a pleasant warmth. People are already gathering in front of the bar, drinks in hand as they laugh about something. Classic rock music drifts through the open door, and someone’s dog is tied to a bike rack, tail wagging at anyone who passes.
I point things out as we wander down the street—small businesses, handwritten chalkboard menus, a florist with buckets of colorful flowers spilling onto the sidewalk—until we stop in front of No Shelf Control.
“Wow,” Harper says, slowing her steps. “This is so cute. I love the display window.”
