Page 14 of Best Friends for Never

I take off my shoes, listening as she slowly rounds the corner from the kitchen, where, I have no doubt, she’s been cooking all day. My stomach growls at the thought of her warm, buttery banana nut bread. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten since this morning, which feels like forever ago at this point.

When she finally comes into view, I get a glimpse of her for the first time in six months, and my smile slips before I can catch it.

Has she always looked this frail? So tiny? So ... breakable?

I can’t remember a single time in the years I spent living with her that she’s ever looked as fragile as she does now, and that includes the time she broke her foot hiking and spent weeks in a cast. Not even that slowed her down.

But seeing her now ... She looks brittle. So ... well,old. I know that’s what happens to us all, but it’s hard to reconcile that the woman before me ismygrandmother, with her back hunched over just slightly and her winter-white hair that, up until now, she’s always kept colored.

If someone said the wordgrandmother, this is what I would imagine. It’s funny, because yes, even though she’s always been my grandma, she’s neverlookedlike a grandma until now.

She winces ever so slightly as she hobbles closer, but I don’t dare bring it up. She’s sensitive about these things, and I don’t want to piss her off when I only just got here.

“Well? What the hell are you staring for? Get over here and hug me already.”

And just like that, my smile is back.

Oh, yeah, this is definitely her.

I cross the tiny entryway and sweep my seventy-eight-year-old grandmother into my arms, hugging her small frame tight, never wanting to let go. Much like she has for my entire life, she smells likefresh-baked sweets with just a hint of that damned aloe vera rub she swears can cure any ache or pain. Even though I think she’s a little ridiculous for rubbing it on so often, I don’t think it’s a scent I’ll ever tire of.

I hold on to her longer, not just because I’ve missed the hell out of her, but because I’m not so sure I want this to end just yet. I’m more than aware that my time with my grandmother is dwindling, and I don’t know how many of these hugs I have left.

“Dang, bub, I know you missed me, but you want to let me go before your Kitchen Sink Cookies burn?”

“Shit. Why didn’t you say so before?” I release her, nodding toward the kitchen. “Quick. Get back in there.”

She swats at me with a roll of her eyes before following my instructions. I stay hot on her heels, tagging along, eager to get my hands on my favorite cookie.

I step into the kitchen that’s been the same since I moved in when I was seven, and my jaw drops. “What the fuck?”

“Noel Benjamin Carter!” my grandmother admonishes. “I haven’t added chocolate chips to this zucchini bread yet, and I swear I’ll make ’em right out of that dish soap over there.”

She gives me a stern glare that has me holding my hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just ... What the hell—heck—happened in here?”

“What?” She waves her hand around the room. “You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just ... It’s different.”

She lifts a shoulder, and I try not to notice how much of her bone I can see stretching against her shirt with the gesture. “Sometimes change is nice.”

For my entire life, this kitchen has had bright-yellow walls, the cabinets have always been chestnut, and her fridge was a white retro style. Only it wasn’t just a style, it was authentically retro, and she had to have someone out to fix it at least once a year.

But now those once too-vivid walls have been painted a subdued light gray, the cabinets repainted white, and the old fridge has beenswapped for a sparkling new modern one. Hell, even the rooster-print hand towels that used to hang off the stove are gone.

I understand change happens, maybe more than most, but it almost feels like a part of my childhood has died with the makeover.

“It looks great, Lou Lou.”

With lightning-quick reflexes, like I didn’t just watch her shuffle down the hall with a grimace, she whips her hand towel at me, and I catch it as effortlessly as she’s thrown it.

She holds out her hand. “Now give it back.”

I laugh, handing it back to her, then make my way over to the kitchen table, which is thankfully still the same, and settle into the chair. It creaks the same way it always has, bringing me even more comfort.

“There was no way I was getting rid of that table—too many memories,” she says, almost reading my mind as she continues folding in the ingredients for her zucchini bread.

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