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She waggles a finger at me. “Not too late.”
I flip her a wink and pick up my stride, weaving through the corridors. It’s quiet, all of the residents probably tucked up in their beds, which is a relief. My visits to Pops often cause a stir with the old dears, all of them vying for my attention.
I knock on the door and poke my head in, finding Pops in his chair with a paper and a cup of tea, the TV quiet in the background. I reach into my jacket and pull out the whiskey, holding it up. “I’ve brought the goods.”
He looks up over his glasses, grinning. “Good. I’m all out.” Lifting his mug, he drains the last of his secret stash and holds it up. “Fill it up, Grandboy.”
I laugh and grab a chair, dragging it over to him and taking a seat. “How much have you had already?” I ask, unscrewing the cap and filling him up halfway.
His old nose screws up. “The cleaners found my stash,” he grumbles, hitting the side of the bottle with his mug and taking a generous guzzle. “But they didn’t find the miniature behind my sink.” He winks, handing me my own mug that’s set to the side on his table, awaiting my arrival. “Tell me about this woman.”
“Lo?”
“Is that her name? Cute. Why’d you want to escape her so desperately?”
I realize quickly what I’ve done and rush to correct it. “No, no, Pops. Amanda is the woman I was on a date with.”
“Then who’s Lo?” he asks, drinking as he keeps his questioning eyes on me. “Lord, you got two on the go, Grandboy?”
I laugh. “Lo’s a friend. Amanda is the woman I’m seeing.” I frown. “I think.”
“Jesus Christ, Luke.” He reaches over and smacks my knee. “You think you’re seeing a woman?”
“I don’t know, Pops.” I join him and sip back some of the good stuff, getting comfortable in my chair. “I’m not feeling it.”
“Then don’t waste her time. Now, tell me about Lo.”
“Lo’s not a woman I’m seeing.”
“Why?”
I laugh. “Because she’s a friend.”
“Why?”
“Jesus, Pops.” I toss him a what-the-hell? look, but it goes straight over his head.
“Why?”
“She’s married,” I tell him, hopefully shutting this down.
“Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
His old green eyes roll dramatically as he leans forward. “Because the second you said Lo’s name, your eyes sparkled.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Why’d I even mention Lo? I didn’t mean to, but her name just fell right out of my mouth when Pops mentioned a woman. She was the first woman who came to mind, maybe because I’m worried about her. She left hastily on Saturday night. Her carefreeness seemed to change in the blink of an eye, and it’s been on my mind since. I don’t like seeing her like that.
Leaning forward, too, I get our noses close, noses that are a match, and stare right into his eyes. “Believe me when I say, Pops, Lo is just a friend. A good friend.”
His eyes narrow. “How’d you meet?”
There’s not a cat in hell’s chance of me telling him that. It’ll only add fuel to the fire. “In a café.”
He sniffs, lifting his chin and inspecting me carefully. “And why’d you run out on your date?”
“Because, Pops, like I said, I’m not feeling it.” I need to tell Amanda. I’m not an arsehole. I just don’t see the point of wasting a woman’s time and mine. Don’t get me wrong, I have fun, but I’m reluctant to move forward with any woman who does anything less than rock my world. They rock my bank balance. Rock my patience. They even rock my bed. But every single one of them have failed to consume my mind and steal my attention from anything but them. When you get to forty-two and you’re still a single man, you begin to wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you. Whether you’re being too picky. Whether that one person who was made for you has passed you by and you didn’t realize.
“What’s this, then?” he asks, waving his mug of whiskey at me. “The fifth woman you’ve dated in as many weeks?”
I grimace. “I’m bored after one or two dates. Besides, you said the one will come along one day and I’d know about it, right? Well, I’m still waiting for her, and you’ll be the first to know when she does come along. Besides, I’m not ready to settle down.”
He snorts, falling back in his chair. “Trust me, boy, when she comes along, you’ll be ready for anything.” I see his mind wander away, and I know exactly where. To the time he met Milly Rose, the woman who he claims was his one true love. Seems crazy that I feel compassion for the old fool, but I’ve listened to this story time and again, and each time he tells it, it’s obvious he wonders what could have been. It was 1946, the summer after the war ended. Even though Gramps had only spent a year in the war, having lied about his age for conscription, he’d come home shell-shocked, and ten months later, in his words, was still suffering a serious case of blue balls. Step in my grandmother—a wonderful woman who Pops met through a friend. They dated for a few months, but both of them agreed they weren’t exactly setting each other’s world alight, so they went their separate ways. And then he met his Milly Rose. “I remember the day I nearly ran down Milly Rose on my bike as if it were yesterday,” he says wistfully, smiling, and I know it’s because he’s picturing her face. “I kicked up so much gravel when I skidded to miss her that it took at least five minutes for me to find her in the plumes of dust.” He chuckles, turning his mug in his hand. “But when that dust cleared, my God. It was like the materialization of an angel, Grandboy.”
