Page 17 of The Family Friend

"I did. You and Heath have been circling each other like vultures for years. I like that boy, I really do. But damn if he didn't need a bit of a push."

"Gram, what did you do?"

She shrugs, and there's something almost fond in the gesture. "Nothing. Maybe I just wanted my birthday gift to be a happily-ever-after for you."

"Here." I hand her the wrapped package, needing to change the subject before my voice gives me away. "I saw this and thought of you."

Gram unwraps it carefully, and when she sees the blanket, she smiles softly. It's the one I found online three months ago—hand-knitted, the exact shade of blue as her bedroom walls, with a pattern that reminded me of the quilts she used to make when I was little.

"Oh, honey." Her voice catches, and I realize with a shock that there are tears in her eyes. Gram doesn't cry. Has never cried, not in my presence. "This is beautiful."

She runs her fingers over the soft wool, and I watch her face transform. For a moment, she looks every one of her eighty years, fragile and not as hard as she pretends to be.

"You are a beautiful person, Harriet," she says quietly. "So is Heath. You make a good match."

It's like salt in an open wound. She means every syllable, believes it completely, and that makes it worse somehow. Gram sees something in Heath and me that isn't actually there, some compatibility that exists only in her loving, hopeful imagination.

But I can't tell her that. Can't explain that the match she's so proud of engineering is built on a fundamental misunderstanding of what Heath wants. Can't break her heart on her eightieth birthday by admitting that her gift to me is something I was never supposed to keep.

So I hug her instead and let her think her matchmaking worked. Let her have this moment of satisfaction, this belief that she's given me exactly what I need.

"Thank you, Gram," I tell her, and mean it for the blanket, for the party, for caring enough to meddle in the first place. "I love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart. Now go get ready for this party. Can't have the guest of honor looking like she's been wrestling with balloon deliveries all afternoon."

I laugh, and it sounds almost normal. "Yes, ma'am."

Back in the loft, I close the door behind me and lean against it, finally allowing the tears I've been holding back all afternoon. They come quietly, just a steady stream that I wipe away as quickly as it falls.

This is what I get for letting myself believe. For thinking that maybe, this once, I could be someone's first choice instead of their consolation prize.

But the weekend isn't over yet. There's still tonight's party to get through, still tomorrow morning and the drive back to real life. I can do this. I can hold it together for a few more hours and then retreat to my own space, my own life, and figure out how to file this weekend away with all the other things that were never really mine.

I'm washing my face in the tiny bathroom, trying to erase the evidence of tears, when I hear Heath's footsteps on the stairs.

The loft door opens, and he appears in the doorway looking windblown and happy, riding some kind of high that makes his whole face bright. Whatever conversation he just had with Penelope, whatever plans they made or problems they solved, it left him glowing with satisfaction.

"Hey." He's grinning, completely oblivious to the wreckage of the last hour. "You disappeared."

I wipe my face and keep my hands busy, fiddling with the clasp of my watch, focusing on the tiny mechanism rather than looking at him. "I wanted to give Gram her present before the party."

"Good call." He settles on the edge of his bed, and I can feel him watching me as I step out of the bathroom. "Everything okay? You seem..."

"Did you know Gram set us up?"

Heath goes still for a moment and bursts out laughing. "I know. She's not as good an actress as she thinks."

He has no idea. No clue that everything has changed in the space of an afternoon, that the ground has shifted beneath us in a way that can't be undone.

Finally, I look up and meet his eyes for the first time since he walked into the room.

"So did you sleep with me out of pity, or because I was simply available? Or both?"

6

HEATH

The word "pity" comes out of her mouth and I just stare at her.