Page 55 of Goodbye Again
“Really?” As a grandchild it’s so hard to imagine your grandparents or parents loving anyone but each other. It’s even difficult to think there was a time when they didn’t even know each other.
Gramma leans back and nods. “Really. He even was married before me.”
“No!” I gasp. How did I not know this?
Her grin widens. “Married his high school sweetheart. I actually really liked her. We became friends.”
“Did you steal him?”
She laughs and shakes her head, her mind bobbing in and out of a daydream of a memory. “No. I just always wanted the best for him until one day it was me.”
“That’s beautiful, Gramma,” I remark. I always loved my grandparents, but I’ll admit I never knew their love story. “How did you finally get together?”
She smiles, and simply states, “When the time was right.”
I want her to elaborate but she doesn’t.
I think of JP. I won’t be his niece’s therapist forever.Maybe one daydances across my mind, spinning in circles and weaving through my brain as a constant reminder I can’t forget.
“It’s not everyone’s story though. Don’t hold out for him. Keep living your life, okay?” Her encouragement snaps me out of the fairytale quickly being written in my fuzzy mind.
“Okay,” I say.
“Well, I better get going. Stop by again soon?” She pauses before she steps over the threshold, sending the scene into a blur.
second chance
AUGUST
2 MONTHS LATER
twelve
I WAKE UP STIFF.
I try to turn my head to grab my phone off my nightstand, but my neck won’t move without it feeling like someone is stabbing me in the back of the head.
“Thirty-one is too young to throw my neck out while sleeping. Happy fucking birthday to me,” I mutter as I push myself to a seated position then rotate my entire body like I’m in a back and neck brace.
I try to tilt my head again and I physically cannot. I try to tilt my chin down and barely make it a millimeter before I lose mobility. It feels like my spine is made out of cement. I still manage to get out of bed and trudge my way to the kitchen to make coffee. When my feet hit the cold tile floor, an aching chill ripples through me and beads of cold sweat form on my forehead.
I groan. I don’t have time to be sick.
Normally, I would power through a cold by taking a shot of cough medicine and faking it for eight hours, but the thermometer I just ran over my forehead is registering 103.
“Shit,” I say and run through my day. It’s always a pain to cancel and reschedule patients. I’ll be overbooked and days behind in work when this stupid virus finally passes.
I take my temperature again, willing it to magically return to 98.6.
It doesn’t, so I call the clinic and tell the receptionist I won’t be in. She offers to reschedule my patients so I can rest, and I make a mental note to hire her (beg her to work with me) when I open my own practice.
When I hang up, I waste no time getting back in bed and letting the world fade to black.
Hours later, I wake to Kevin whining at the foot of my bed.
“Oh, shit! Sorry!” I say, jumping out of bed and only feeling slightly better. But my neck still feels like it’s made of steel and I can feel my heartbeat in my skull. I wince and pop a few ibuprofens before throwing on a hoodie and slippers to take Kevin out to go to the bathroom, all while thinking it’d be nice to have a man take care of me when I’m sick.
I sigh. JP’s face is at the forefront of my mind. We haven’t spoken in two months, and while the absence of him allowed me to complete my dissertation and stay on Dr. Flanigan’s good side, I still miss him. When the apartment feels too quiet, or I stare too long at the wine stain on the rug, this impulse to throw caution to the wind comes barreling in. Then I remember the endless hours I’m putting in at school and work and how close I am to earning my PhD, and I refuse to sacrifice any of it in the name of love.
