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dings when my phone rings.
My heart flutters at the sight of Blocked Caller and I'm quick to answer.
"I was just thinking about you," I say, smiling into the phone.
"I miss you," James says. I love the early morning roughness in his voice.
I chuckle lightly. "How? You just saw me a few days ago."
"That wasn't enough. I need to see you every day."
I shake my head as if he's standing right in front of me. "You're terrible."
"When can I see you again?"
I bite the side of my lip. "You make the rules, not me."
A long stretch of silence, then, "Aubrey."
One word, my name, and it's enough to cause me to stop walking. It was a bullshit comment to make and we both know it.
"I'm trying, James," I say honestly, my voice a little shaky. "I'm just having a week where the guilt is eating away at me more than usual. I can't sleep. I can't focus. I'm avoiding everything like the plague and trying to stay busy. I'm tempted to come clean with Natalie, but I know deep down it won't go the way I hope it will in my head. And, well, I just miss you."
Tears sting eyes. I'm talking a mile a minute and I'm on the verge of a breakdown. What's wrong with me?
"Sweetheart, it kills me to hear you like this. Do you have plans later?"
Swallowing, I shake my head and keep walking. "I don't know… I was going to try and sleep after class, to be honest."
"I’m going to text you an address and time within the hour for you to get a deep tissue massage. Go to the appointment. It'll help loosen you up a little."
I hold the phone tight to my ear. I've never had a massage before.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to do anything. I want to."
"That's really sweet of you," I say softly.
I hear someone knock on his door through the phone. "Come in," he says, holding the away from his mouth. "Yeah, I got the case file right here," he says to whoever’s it is. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you later?"
"Yeah," I whisper. "Later."
Only later, I don't make it to the massage. I don't make it to the rest of my afternoon classes. I drop everything when a seven-one-eight number calls to inform me that my grammy is in the hospital. I silenced the number since I was in class, then stepped out to listen to the voice mail. I left immediately.
"Grammy, you're sitting here with machines making noise and an oxygen mask over your face, you look terrible, and your only concern is your cats?"
If I didn't love her so much I would yell at her. The only concern she should have is getting healthy. When the hospital called to tell me she was brought in after the neighbor below her in the basement rental heard a loud thump and went to check on her, I almost broke down. Having bronchitis is no joke, but at her age, it worries me even more. There's a grayish sheen to her skin and circles under her eyes that once held a little spark but is now missing.
"Aubrey! I'm all they have! If I don't come home they'll go into a frenzy."
"They're cats. They only worry about when their next meal is coming," I say deadpan.
She looks truly upset and hurt, so I offer a solution I really hate but know I’ll suffer through, because she's Grammy.
"What if I pick up all your little fur balls and take them to my place? I'll probably need to borrow your car, if you're okay with that. I'll park it in the city somewhere but at least they'll have me."
Her eyes soften. "You'd do that for me?"
