A moment later Ethan looks down at me. “Sugarpuss?”
“Better than Fancy McButterPants?”
The amusement is still there, on the face I’ve come to know so well. “Not by a long shot.”
I’m almost certain he’s going to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds on tighter. For another ten minutes we walk in comfortable silence, millions of people all around and I barely notice because I have the object of all my dirty dreams touching me. Not because he has to––because he wants to.
The world starts to melt away. People all around us, running past us, riding their bikes, walking their dogs. And yet it feels as if we’re the last two people on the planet, enjoying each other’s quiet company on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I close my eyes and soak in all the feels, letting his steady presence be my guide.
“Thanks,” he says, a pronounced rasp in his voice. Something about it garners my immediate attention. My eyes slow blink open, narrow at the sunlight flooding in.
“For what?” I glance sideways and find him staring straight ahead, as serious as I’ve ever seen him.
“For being awesome.”
My stomach sinks. My heart stops beating. Boom. I’m dead. Or something like it.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s the second time this week I made the trek to New Jersey. Lately, I find myself wanting to see my grandmother any chance I get, as if we’re on borrowed time, which in all likelihood we are because of her disease. Or maybe we’re not. Maybe time has already run out.
“Margaret?”
My grandmother turns and takes me in. I look for a sign that she recognizes me––a spark, a furrow of the brow, any glimmer of hope––but nothing, she may as well have laid eyes on me for the first time in her life. I’m a stranger to her.
“Do you remember me?”
Her expression is flat, at best a touch inquisitive, if that. She gives me one of her polite smiles, one I know well from my time working at the funeral home with her. It’s the same one she would give to grieving family members while she explained how much a funeral was going to cost them. You’d be surprised to learn how expensive it is to die.
“How are you?”
She smiles again, her gaze moving over my face as if she’s trying to figure out who I am. I’m momentarily excited that she’s on the brink of remembering me.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Good…good.” I struggle to come up with something that won’t confuse or frustrate her. “I’m Amber,” I say, continuing with caution.
“Right, Amber. I thought you looked familiar.” She grips and releases the arms of the chair, a gesture I know means she’s a bit nervous. “You remind me of my daughter.”
My heart leaps. This is more than she’s said in the last few weeks.
“Really? What’s your daughter like?” I’m on the edge of my chair I’m so excited.
“Oh, she’s wonderful. She’s a great daughter. She comes to visit me all the time. Brings me gifts.”
Uhhhh, no. No, she doesn’t. I’m the one that comes all the time. I’m the one who brings gifts. My mother comes to visit her maybe three times a year. And that’s only because it’s on her way to the Short Hills Mall to shop.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” It’s dangerous for me to ask questions. I know this. And yet I can’t help myself.
Her paper thin lips, ruffled on the edges by time, press together in deep thought.
Something sparks in her eyes. “Eileen,” she says. Overjoyed at the recollection, she beams a smile at me. The only smile I’ve seen on her face in months.
Even though I want to laugh and shout and hug her, I’m simultaneously crestfallen. Because although I’m glad she remembers Eileen, a daughter she was never close to, a daughter that has never lifted a pinky to help her, I’m a stranger. Me, the person that gave up everything to help take care of her. That has always been there for her. I’m the stranger.
“You remember Eileen?
“Of course, dear. Why wouldn’t I?”
This of course compels me to continue––against my better judgement. “What do you remember about her?”
“She’s a real beauty. I’m very proud of her. She won Miss New Jersey.” No she didn’t. She partied hard and passed out in front of her hotel room door the night before the second day of competition and was immediately cut from the pageant. It’s one of my favorite Eileen stories. “And she’s a good daughter.” My grandmother grows serious, a slow to develop frown replacing the soft smile she wore not a second ago. “Unlike my granddaughter.”
Her words hit as forcefully as a physical blow to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me.
“What do you mean?” I croak.
“She’s a whore.”
I struggle to keep my emotions hidden as hard as I struggle to breathe. “You don’t mean that.”