Only Trick

Nana refills our wine glasses. “Is it?”

“Her business?” I squint.

“Love. Is Trick love?”

I sigh with a dreamy grin that appears at just the mention of his name. “Did I tell you he bought me my own helmet and jacket for riding on the back of his motorcycle?”

Nana’s posture inflates at least six inches until her whole body beams with pride.

My cheeks heat and I feel like a thirteen-year-old girl with my first crush—captain of the football team type crush. The one where all the other girls are catty-bitch jealous that the most popular guy in school only has eyes for the shy girl with pale skin and unruly red hair.

I sip more wine, fading back into my chair, allowing myself to really think about Trick with unguarded feelings and nonjudgemental eyes. “He was the guy I never imagined myself with … now he’s the guy I can’t imagine myself without.”

Nana’s expression softens. “I’m happy for you, dear.”

I nod and smile with a few tears in my eyes. “I love him; I’m not even sure it’s a choice anymore.” I laugh and shake my head. “The truth is he may have a closet full of skeletons, but I wouldn’t know and … I’m not sure he does either.”

Nana tilts her head to the side.

“He was in an accident, hit by a car. Now he has partial memory loss, about five years of his life just … gone.”

“Oh, Darby …”

I give her a sad smile. “He has trust issues and I think a lot of it stems from the memory loss … well that and the fact he grew up homeless.”

Her face contorts into a sad grimace.

“He was homeless at five and orphaned by fifteen. Can you image? A fifteen year old coming home…” I shake my head “…wherever ‘home’ is when you’re homeless, to discover his parents have just vanished. He assumes they’re dead and maybe they are, but what if they’re not?” I sip my wine. “I don’t know what to think, but I do know I love him, even the part he can’t share with me. Can you believe he owns a gun?”

Nana shakes her head. “Doesn’t mean he’s done anything bad with it. A lot of people own guns for protection. I have one in my bedside stand.”

WTF?

“Close your mouth, dear. It’s not very ladylike.”

“Nana—I-I don’t know what to say. You have a gun?”

She sorts her cards like we’re really going to finish this game. “Of course, Bridge club is Tuesday Thursday, Wednesday Friday I go to lunch and shopping with friends, but on Mondays Mary and I go to the shooting range. How’d you think I’ve managed to keep such muscle definition in these old lady arms?”

“Pilates, Nana. You go to Pilates, not the shooting range.”

She snaps her wrist at me with a dismissive pfft. “I haven’t done Pilates in almost six months, not since Mary had surgery on her knee.”

Resting my elbows on the table, I rub my temples, but it doesn’t help. This conversation is happening. It’s not a dream or nightmare.

“My point is that Trick is a smart guy. He didn’t grow up under the same circumstances that you did, and he doesn’t live in the best neighborhood. You should have him teach you how to use a gun.”

I shake my head. “No way. The night he pistol whipped my attacker I was reminded of the violence I clean up after every day and—”

“Darby! You were attacked?”

I grimace. “Sorry, no that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t attacked. There were these two thugs trying to scare me one night when I left Trick’s place. But he came out with a gun and … it was fine. I’m fine.”

She leans forward and rests her hand on my arm. “You should have told me, and you’re fine because Trick had a gun with him.”

“I don’t think the gun mattered. They would have left me alone even if he wouldn’t have had a gun.” I speak the words, but I have yet to one hundred percent convince myself.

“I think I love him too.” She pats my arm, a coy smile tugging at her lips. “Steven wouldn’t have known what to do in that same situation. He might have run them over with his canary mobile, but even that wouldn’t be too likely. The impact would leave a dent.”

“Oh, Nana! Steven’s not a bad guy.”

“I know, but the more your father liked him the less I did. We have to be suspicious of anyone your father likes too much.”

“You know it was Steven’s dad, not really Steven.”

She tips the wine bottle toward her glass only to discover that it’s empty. “Humpf. Well you know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I sigh. “Then what does that say about me?”

“It says you’re your mother’s daughter, and believe it or not when she met your father he was a better man. Lucy had impeccable taste in everything. Calvin didn’t deserve her, but she made him a better man, until …” She swallows back uncharacteristic emotion. Nana is a rock, but my mother, Lucille, is an unprotected part of her heart that always elicits a flicker of raw emotion in her eyes.