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“I didn’t stay long,” I say.
“Oh? Finally take that drive to make-out point?” she teases. “How many virginities do you think she’s taken there?”
“Why? Are you competing?” I don’t feel my usual need to rebuff the question. Sure, Lexi sleeps around. So what? I never cared about that. But I don’t typically enjoy the thought of her with another man.
Only right now, I don’t care.
I can’t see us there.
I can’t see any of it.
Grandma’s laugh pulls me back to the scene. “Sweetheart, do you really want the answer to that?”
“You were married for thirty years,” I say.
“I wasn’t married for a long time before and after that.”
“Meet a lot of seventy-year-old virgins?” I ask.
Grandma shoots me one of her signaturedon’t be naive, darlinglooks. “A lot of men enjoy an older woman.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to know this.” Really. I love Grandma. She’s basically my mom at this point. But I don’t need to picture her with a younger man. Or any man. “Did you finish the bottle?”
“Wine after midnight?”
“I’m living dangerously.”
“No,” she says. “Two glasses left.”
“You drank all that on your own?” I ask.
“Mr. Huntington stopped by for a glass.”
I raise a brow. “Don’t tell me.”
“Of course not. He’s not a virgin.” She starts to push up, but she doesn’t have the strength.
I pretend I don’t notice. I take the glass to the kitchen, fill hers, pour another for me, recycle the bottle, and take a moment to compose myself.
She’s not well.
She needs help.
And she’s crystal clear on what she wants from me.
Company. Only company.
No debates, no opinions on her treatment plans, no carrying her up the stairs or bringing home her groceries or cooking.
She’s taking care of herself, as much as she can, as long as she can.
I can live with that, or I can leave.
By the time I step into the living room, I present a serene expression.
I place the glasses on the coffee table and sit next to her. “What are we watching?”
“Damages.”
