Page 30 of Hard to Fake

“You,” he accuses.

I place a hand on my chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You turned off my music.”

“So I did. Let me make it up to you, Mr. P.”

I tilt my head and walk side by side with him down to the lounge. We put on the record player, and I get him settled with one of the staff before I continue on my way.

In the two years I’ve been coming here, the residents have come and gone, but Mr. P is a fixture.

I knock on Grams’s door, but there's no answer. I let myself in, edging the door open a crack. Inside, she's sitting in her chair, her eyes closed as if she's asleep. I approach her slowly, not wanting to startle her.

“Grams?” I say, kneeling beside her.

She opens her eyes and smiles, taking my hand. "Hello, dear. It's good to see you. How's my boy?"

"He still tracks dirt on the sofa."

"I meant you, not Waffles."

"So did I."

She laughs, her eyes crinkling.

It's good to see her like this, happy and sharp. There are days her expression is bright and lively and others she’s tired. I’ve looked enough that I can tell instantly what kind of day it is, almost before she starts to speak.

"I brought you flowers." I hold up a bouquet of daisies and sunflowers. “And cookies. I haven’t figured out how to smuggle Waffles in yet but we’re working on it.”

"Ahh. Thank you, honey. I watched your game the other night."

“What’d you think?”

“You played wonderfully.”

“You have to say that.”

“Untrue. If you played terribly, I’d let you know.”

I grin. “You still getting to your workout classes?" They have in-chair mobility three days a week.

"I'd like to get out for the dance. It should be next weekend," she says, "but I haven't heard."

"I’ll check with the staff, see if there's anything planned.”

"I used to love dancing with your grandfather."

I feel a pang at the mention of my grandfather, who passed away when I was young. I know how much he meant to my grandma, and I'm glad she has those memories to hold on to.

"What are you doing when you have a day off?" she prompts.

"I'm going to a sorority reunion. With a friend."

Her eyes brighten. "A lady friend?"

“Maybe.” I chuckle, knowing she's trying to play matchmaker.

After I headed home from the party, Brooke’s broken shoes somehow tucked under my arm, I found myself scrolling through her socials.

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