“They just left, honey." She barely made it to my chest, she was so small, but her strength had been evident in the set of her shoulders under her floral dress.
"I was supposed to ride with my grandparents," I mumbled stupidly, still too deadened by the situation.
Her eyes widened as she’d realized who I was. Instead of offering me a look of pity, she’d just smiled. “Don't worry about it, baby. My grandson will take you down. He drives me to church, so I can help the pastor clean up. I can get a ride from one of the other ladies later.”
She took off to find him before I could decline her offer. That's how Grandma B and Jet entered my life.
When Jet looked at Grandma B with his matching eyes, the love poured out of him. His mop of hair hung over his face framing his smile. His caramel-colored skin had been largely covered by his long sleeve shirt, effectively hiding his tatted-up arms. They weren't covered with the generous amount of inked-cleavage as they are now. The majority of his ink happened later.
It seemed as if Grandma B knew we were going to be friends before we did. She gave Jet a hug when he told her he would come back to get her. She refused his offer, telling him he needed to stay with me, and she would find her way back home.
Jet shook his head, silently telling me there was no arguing with Grandma B. So, I accepted her hug like Jet had and turned to climb into a mammoth-sized truck with a guy I just met.
Jet rambled the whole time, filling in the silence with easy conversation, and I was thankful for it. I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts any longer without going insane.
He told me the story of his mom, Grandma B’s daughter, and how when she found out she was pregnant, she had planned to abort him. Grandma B convinced her to give the baby to her—at a price. The day he was born, his mom checked herself out of the hospital under her own recognizance, taking her money and never looking back.
Jet was completely open about his past; his candid account of his upbringing prompted me to tell him my story as well, solidifying our friendship before we made it to the plots.
I stayed until everyone left. Just staring down at the caskets. Jet stood next to me the whole time, quietly supporting me. While we stood there, two more guys had joined us. The first time the JackholeS had stood together.
Van was as big and scary looking as he is now. His bald head shone against the sinking sun. The tattoos and piercings had made him look menacing, and I was uneasy as he walked over to us. He shook Jet's hand, telling him Grandma B had sent them to check on us. D was tall and skinny, especially when standing next to Van. He had long brown hair that hid his hazel eyes, giving off a shy quality to him. It was obvious he was some type of athlete, but his demeanor exuded anxiety.
I’d later found out through Jet that Van was the pastor’s son and D was their foster child. I can’t explain it, but when all of us gathered together, I felt like I had found my place in the world. Fate had taken my grandparents away but gave me something better.
We ended up over at my newly-acquired house. I think we instinctively knew I hadn’t wanted to go to the reception, and I definitely didn't want to be alone. We stayed up all night, bonding as we got to know each other more.
Van explained his dad was a religious nut and was extremely disappointed in the person he turned out to be. This was how D had come into the picture. Van’s parents had thought a foster child would be so grateful for being saved, they would be able to mold him into their idea of the perfect son. D kept his eyes locked on Van as he spoke, pain radiating from him.
We all had our pasts to deal with, and I knew it was going to be a long battle for all of us to heal.
The guys left the next day, but I knew they would be back. We had an unspoken connection. We were family now. I wasn't surprised when, not two hours later, there was a knock on my door. Van stood in front of me, two duffle bags over his shoulder.
I moved aside so he could come in as he insisted he wouldn’t be staying long, and as soon as he found a job he would find his own place. I told him he was ridiculous. I had a huge house with more than enough room, and money wasn't an issue. There was no reason for him to leave.
That night, Van paced the floor as he explained what happened when he had gone home. His parents accused him of doing drugs and other deplorable acts, corrupting D in the process. He couldn’t take their screaming any longer. After his escape he was mentally beating himself up over leaving D alone.
D hadn’t turned eighteen yet, so he was still considered a ward of the state, and, by law, couldn't leave. Van was a fucking mess the next day, telling me he couldn’t abandon D. He shouldered his duffle bags and took off, saying he’d call me later.
In less than an hour, he was back, his parents refused to let him into the house. In their eyes he was no longer a member of their family.
For the second day in a row, I opened my door and moved back so he could walk in. This time he had tears streaming down his face. Jet came over later, and Van recounted the whole situation to him. Jet being Jet piled us into his truck and drove us to Grandma B’s house.
She sat us down at her battered kitchen table and started dinner. Van garnered most of Grandma B’s attention. After several minutes of goading and tempting him with baked goods, he finally broke down and told her everything.
Grandma B was visibly upset as she listened intently, stirring the pot on the stove like she was on a mission.
She placed heaping plates of food in front of us before leaving the room. We stared in the direction she’d disappeared, not sure what to do. Jet finally told us to eat because she would be upset if we didn’t.
When Grandma B came back, her face was red and her eyes filled with unshed tears. She kissed Van on the top of the head telling him she would keep an eye on D until the time was right.
She made us promise to come over for dinner at least once a week. It had been a tradition. She called us her boys and treated us like we were her own, giving us support, advice-and lectures when we needed them.
One day, she called Van's dad a jackhole for the way he treated Van, explaining it was a combination of jackass and asshole without the ass. That was the first day since my grandparents' death I actually laughed.
Instead of once a week, we were at Grandma B's almost everyday. She provided us updates on D as she piled food in front of us. She became even more involved in the church so she could recount how D was doing, easing Van’s mind. She was amazing, and when we took her out in public she would stand in the middle of us with her head held high, smiling like she was the luckiest person in the world.
One day, she slipped on a ladder at the church, breaking her hip and most of her ribs, and fracturing her arm.
