Only One Chance (Only One 2)

She answers right away. “No, why?” Her voice goes from a whisper to a normal voice. I hear her walking wherever she is.

“Well, he just texted me a picture of us from last night,” I fill her in. “It came through. Like I actually got his text.”

“Okay and …?” she asks, and I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. This is a dream; this has to be a dream or, better yet, a fucking nightmare. But then my eyes open, and I see it’s not a dream.

“I never gave him my number,” I tell her. “I gave him a number. All the fake numbers.”

She gasps and then laughs. “Oh my God, you have to marry him,” she sings with glee while I groan. “You said it yourself. If the guy finds your number, you’ll marry him.”

“I don’t have time for this. I have to be at my grandmother’s place in thirty-five minutes.” I don’t even bother answering or touching what she just said.

“Grandma Nancy,” she says, her voice full of love. “Bring her some flowers,” she says, then hangs up right after.

I slowly peel myself off my bed as I make my way to my walk-in closet. I grab my comfiest pair of black jeans, grabbing a white shirt with short sleeves that rests just above the top of the jeans. Gathering my hair, I tie it on top of my head in a high bun. I grab my purse, keys, and flip-flops. Bending down, I pick up a vase of roses in my arms and walk out of the house, trying not to fall. I walk as slowly as I can to my car, making sure I don’t smash into anything. The flowers cover half my eyes. I buckle the bouquet in the front seat before making my way over to my grandmother's senior living home.

I stop on the way to pick up our favorite burgers and fries. When I pull up to her home, I’m thankful she’s sitting outside in the front swing with four of her friends. She gets up as soon as she sees me park my car, waving and calling my name.

“Layla, honey.” She walks over, and I look her up and down. She is still a beauty with her wild and curly salt and pepper hair that falls in the middle of her back. Her bright gray eyes shine as she looks at me. She’s wearing a long orange dress with a bright yellow cover-up. The bangles on her arms clink when she spots the flowers and claps her hands together, each finger has a ring on it. It balances her aura, she always says. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, dear.” Her voice is soft and sweet.

“Can you grab the food?” I motion to the takeout bag that is on the floor of the car. She grabs the bag and my purse, then comes over to kiss my cheek. “Hi.”

“You look like the cat just dragged you in and licked your hair,” she says, and I laugh. She is full of all these strange sayings. She always had a saying about something. It’s one of the things I think I love most about her.

“Well, after the night I had …” I walk with her up her concrete walkway as she says hello to the people she sees. “I’ll take it.”

“Oh!” she squeals with excitement. “I want to hear all about it,” she tells me as she holds open the front door, and I step in and notice that all of her windows are open, and it looks foggy. I set the flowers on her glass table that is right off the small kitchen.

“What is that smell?” I ask her, looking around, and she smiles at me.

“I was making cannabutter this morning,” she says. “And well, one thing led to another. I forgot about it, and it’s burnt.”

“Grandma,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “What the hell were you doing that you forgot you had it in the oven?”

“It’s not what I was doing, dear,” she says, winking at me. “It’s who I was doing.”

“Oh my God,” I say, sitting down on one of the chairs before I fall on the floor. “That’s so gross.”

“I have needs,” she says, walking to the table. “And sometimes those needs get met by a real willie instead of the plastic one in my drawer.” Sitting down, she crosses her legs. Her feet are bare as they always are when she’s home.

“This is all too much,” I tell her, and she shrugs.

“Now, did you bring me a beyond meat burger?” she asks, grabbing the bag, and I nod my head. “Good.” handing her a fry and her beyond meat burger. My whole life, she has been the one who guided me and stood by my side. My parents had me when they were both sixteen. They were best friends, and one night, they dropped me off to her, then went off to party. I was six months old, and that night, I became an orphan. My parents were killed in a hit-and-run accident, leaving my grandmother to raise me. She didn’t bat an eye that she was fifty and now raising a child. She never made me feel that I stopped her from living. Instead, she said I was her second chance. Sure, she was unconventional, but so was life. “So tell me,” she says, grabbing a french fry. “How was your night?”