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I laugh, and even to my own ears, I sound a little manic. “Don’t worry. Even I’m not that big of an idiot.” Walking to the door with determined strides, I come to a stop in front of the door, my hand on the handle. Then I turn to him. “You know what, I just realized something. I lived my entire life feeling as if I wasn’t good enough for you. I was wrong. You’re the one who wasn’t good enough for me, or for Grams. We were both better off without you. Have a nice life, Father.”
I walk out of the bar with my chin held high.
Max rises to his feet the second I enter the coffee shop across from the bar. Without hesitation, I walk straight into his open arms, not caring that we’re attracting stares. I rest my forehead in the crook of his neck, grateful for his strong, warm presence and the care in his voice as he utters one single word.
“Emilia?”
“Let’s go back home.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emilia
Bad things usually come in a pack. A storm hits New Orleans, delaying the flight by six hours. That means it’ll be early morning when we arrive, and Max will have to go to his office directly. I will barely have time to go home and check on Grams. While we wait, I relay the conversation with my father to Max almost word for word. He goes on a rant, deservedly calling that rat all the profanities that cross his mind, and then he simply kisses my forehead, holding me in his arms. He’s simply being Max—solid and quiet, and I love him for it. Still, even as I lie in his arms, it still feels like my heart was cracked open. An age-old hurt and fear have resurfaced: fear of not being wanted or good enough. It’s stupid and makes me weak, but I can’t help it.
“I should have bought some more beignets before we boarded the plane,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to New Orleans.”
“Hey, we can arrange for you to get as many beignets as you want whenever you want them,” he says softly.
“That, right there, is the sweetest love declaration in the world, Max Bennett.”
We spend the rest of the flight in silence, with Max working on his laptop. The meeting with the distributors in Brazil will start one hour after we land. I feel guilty for pulling him away from work for so long, but whenever I bring the subject up, he simply shrugs, saying work can wait. I try—and fail—to sleep for the second night in a row. It’s a good thing I didn’t tell Grams where I was going. She doesn’t have to go through the same heartbreak I am. I’ll have to tell her we didn’t find him. I hate lying to her, but in this case, it’s better than the truth.
I am in a zombie-like state when we land. Max worked until two hours ago, after which he fell into a deep sleep. He woke up in full business mode, and even changed into a new suit while on the plane.
“I’ll call you after the meeting is over,” he says before we part.
“Sure. I’m going home to check on Grams, and then I’ll go to the clinic.” I have no idea how I’ll be of any use to my patients today. I can barely keep my eyes open, or form coherent thoughts.
Half an hour later, I let myself into my house as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake up Grams or Mrs. Wilson, who was kind enough to sleep here. I leave my bag at the door, kicking off my sneakers as well and tiptoeing on the hardwood floor. It appears Mrs. Wilson is up though, because the couch on which she usually sleeps when she spends the night is empty. Weird. Maybe she slept in my bedroom. Except my bed is empty too. And so is Grams’s.
“Mrs. Wilson? Grams?” I call loudly. No answer. I head back to the living room, and instantly feel something is wrong. The room is eerily quiet, as is the rest of the house. Sweat breaks at the back of my neck as I make my way through the house, checking each room again. Steeling myself, I head to the back of the house, pushing open the door to the backyard. No one is in the yard. On the coffee table in front of the sofa is a half drunk cup of tea. My stomach constricts. Where are they? Did something happen to Grams, and they had to rush her to the hospital? In that case, why didn’t Mrs. Wilson call me?
I swipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my legs before heading back inside the house, hunting for my phone. When I find it, I dial Mrs. Wilson’s number with trembling hands.
“Hi, Emilia,” she answers, and my stomach constricts at the tightness in her tone.
“Mrs. Wilson, where are you? Where’s Grams?”
“You—you’re home?” she stutters.
“Yeah, I got back just now. Where are you?”
“I’m two blocks away, with Mrs. Andersen and Mrs. Jensen. We’re looking for Grams.”
I grip the nearby chair for support. The two women she mentioned are our neighbors. “What do you mean, looking for her?”
“She took off.” Her voice is trembling now, and my heart squeezes as I realize she’s crying. “She had a rough night, barely slept and woke up at four o’clock. I made tea for both of us and we were in the backyard. Then I went inside the house to bring sugar for our tea. It wasn’t in its usual place, so it took me quite a bit to find it. When I went back, your Grams was gone.”
I take a deep breath, attempting to calm myself. “When was this?”
“One hour ago.”
“One— Jesus!” My mind races with scenario after scenario, each more pessimistic than the one before. She could be anywhere. She could be hurt. She could be— No, I won’t go there. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“She’s my grandmother. Of course I will worry!” My voice comes out as a shout, one I instantly regret. I know she meant well. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson. Where are you exactly? I’ll come right away.”
