Chapter Four
Vic
Vic pulled his battered duffel out of the back of the rideshare’s SUV and slung it over his shoulder.The late-afternoon sun beat down on the cracked driveway of the small ranch-style house on the outskirts of Nashville.It looked exactly the same as it had the last time he left—faded blue shutters, the same lopsided porch swing, and the potted ferns Grams refused to admit were dying no matter how brown they got.
The screen door creaked open before he even reached the steps.
“Victor Montrose, as I live and breathe.”Grams stood in the doorway, somehow smaller than he remembered.Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun, but her shoulders seemed weaker, her frame thinner beneath the familiar floral housecoat.But she still smiled that same bright smile.This was the face of the woman who had raised him more than his father ever had.All of that didn’t quite hide the way her hand trembled on the doorframe, though.
He dropped the duffel and wrapped her up carefully, afraid she might break.“Hey, Grams.”
She hugged him back with surprising strength for a moment, then pulled away and cupped his face in both hands, studying him like she used to when he came home from school with a black eye or from a tour with a new tattoo.Her fingers felt thinner, the skin more like tissue paper.“You look tired, baby.But better than last time you found your way home.Come on in.I’ve got sweet tea and leftover meatloaf.”
Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish and decades of love.Vic followed her down the narrow hallway, noting how slowly she moved, how she favored her right hip and kept one hand on the wall for balance.The frailty hit him harder than he expected.This woman had buried two husbands, raised a wild-ass son who never quite grew up, and still had managed to keep Vic from completely derailing through it all.Seeing her like this made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
They sat at the little Formica table in the kitchen, the same one where Vic had done most of his homework as a kid.Grams asked gentle questions about the last tour while he gave her the polished version—good crowds, decent pay, nothing worth worrying about.He didn’t mention walking away from Dom or the time spent sleeping on Sheri’s couch.Some things a grandmother didn’t need to carry.
That night, he bunked down in his old room, furnished with the same twin bed he’d outgrown by sixteen.The posters of some of his dad’s old bands were tacked to the wall, faded now.Vic lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around him—the familiar creaks and sighs that had once meant safety—and felt the weight of everything he’d been running from settle on his chest.
Home.
***
The next week relaxedinto a gentle rhythm that felt both comforting and heartbreaking.
Mornings began the same way.Vic woke early, made coffee exactly how Grams liked it—strong with two sugars—and brought her a cup in bed.She’d pat the edge of the mattress, and they’d sit together while the sun came up, talking about small things.The neighbor’s new dog.How the tomatoes were growing in the backyard.Whether Vic thought the local football team had any chance this season.
One morning, she asked about Rosie.
“Have you heard from your dad lately?”she said quietly, staring into her coffee.
Vic swallowed hard.“Nope.Last time we talked, he was chasing something bigger than this life.”
Grams nodded slowly.“He loves you, Victor.In his own messy way.He just doesn’t know how to stay still long enough to show it right.”
Vic helped with the chores he knew she struggled with now.He mowed the lawn while she sat on the porch swing watching him, a glass of sweet tea in her hands, waving whenever he looked her way.He fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom that had been dripping for months.He drove her to her doctor’s appointments and sat in the waiting room pretending to read old magazines while worry gnawed at him.
She was getting smaller.Slower.The woman who used to chase him around the yard with a wooden spoon when he tracked mud in the house now needed his arm to get up the porch steps.Every time he noticed another sign—how her hands shook when she poured tea, how she needed to rest after folding one load of laundry—something ached deep in his chest.
One evening, as they sat on the porch after supper, fireflies blinking in the yard, Grams reached over and took his hand.
“You don’t have to stay here forever, baby.I know you’ve got big dreams.Just...don’t forget to come home sometimes.This old house gets quiet without you.”
Vic squeezed her fingers gently.“I’m not going anywhere for a while, Grams.Promise.”
