Fuck. I drag a hand through my hair, trying not to come apart with her.
My grandma’s brow furrows. “She was here a second ago . . . I swear she was. And Mark—” Her gaze drifts toward the empty corner by the dresser and finds me instead of my grandfather.
“Mike, don’t stand like that. You’ll hurt your back.”
The silence in the room is suffocating.
Aspen looks to me. She doesn’t know my dad’s name. The only time I say it or hear it is in these moments—when my grandmother looks at me and sees the son she lost, the father that failed me.
I move closer, slowly, like she might spook if I rush her. Crouching at her feet, I grip the arms of her chair instead of taking her hands like I want to.
“Gran,” I say quietly.
It’s the wrong thing to say. She turns for the door again.
Then back.
Every line in her face pulls tight with confusion.
“Did you drive?” she asks suddenly. “We’re late.”
My heart stutters, but I keep my voice steady. “No one’s late.”
Her mouth presses thin. “Rory hates being late.”
Rory’s been dead for over twenty years. My father even longer.
But her memories don’t follow rules anymore. They pile on top of each other until the past and present become the same thing.
Aspen stands from her chair giving us space. She moves out of Gran’s line of sight but stays in mine, thumb between her teeth, watching carefully.
Close enough that I can still reach for her if I need to.
Before I can answer, the door opens softly.
Connie stands there, hands folded, already reading the room.
She meets my eyes, and her smile fades the second she takes in my grandmother’s face.
I give her the smallest nod of my head.
“Well, Monica,” she says warmly, “looks like visiting hours are winding down.”
My grandma blinks at her.
Then at Aspen.
Then back at me.
Something rearranges behind her eyes.
“Oh.” She exhales. “Was I talking too much again?”
“Not even close,” Aspen says.
Gran smiles at her—slow, affectionate, a little tired now.
“I like you,” she says plainly. “You stay.”
