Page 59 of God of War

“Either.”

The thought of Gran is a little pin-prick in my chest. “They both were,” I reply. “Are. I’m not sure if Carol Burnett is still around.”

Delaney laughs. “Wow, so you grew up with two funny women and you still didn’t develop a sense of humor. That’s sad.”

I snort. Fucking brat.

“I can see you smiling,” she whispers in the dark.

“I’m not fucking smiling,” I reply, reaching up to drag a hand over my face. I feel the exhaustion creeping in now, but the last thing I want to do is sleep. To end this moment with Delaney. Delaney goes quiet. “Is your Gran… Is she…”

“She’s dead,” I reply. “Five years now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too… But thanks.”

“What was she like?”

She unfolds her slender arms, letting one hand drop to trace the knots in the wooden floor. I could reach out if I wanted. Take her hand. I push down the urge and instead I search my memory, filtering out the bad flashes — Gran angrily flushing my stash of pills, patching up my cut knuckles with a slash of disapproval on her face.

“Decent,” I say finally. “She was decent.”

There’s a burst of noise from outside: the patrons from the fight letting out, laughing and cursing and stumbling on gravel.

“She remembered you, you know.”

Delaney goes still, her fingers freezing in the middle of the little circles she’s making in the dust on the floor. “What do you mean?”

This time I do reach out. The tips of her fingers are cold, so I wrap my hand around them and let my warmth seep into her. “Just that she remembered you. The little girl who lived down the street. You liked watching her work in the garden, she said. I was going to give you her number in the retirement home.”

“What? When?”

She sounds stunned. Like it’s insanity that someone cared about her.

I swallow. “The night you came over.”

She knows what night, same as me. When she asked me to do something for her. This little kid, with her big eyes and tears, that fucking book about the God of War clutched in her bony hands.

“Oh,” she says softly. Her fingers slip out of my grasp. “She probably hated me after that, didn’t she? Because of what everyone thought.”

“Never told her.”

“Oh,” she says again. There’s a quiet beat, then she takes a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

We lie there for a long time. So long in fact that I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. The sounds of the bar patrons downstairs fade into the night. Car engines growl to life, then disappear into the distance.

“She was good at gardening,” she says suddenly, startling me.

More silence and there’s a stab of fear, like we’re running out of things to say. I feel the pull of sleep and roll over, forcing pain to streak through my sore muscles and jerk me back to life. I don’t want to sleep. Every crumb from Delaney is making me feel so good, filling me up with warmth and this fucking wholeness that I never knew I was craving. I want to know everything about her, what she thinks about, what she loves, what she hates.

“What are you good at?” I ask.

Delaney snorts bitterly. “Aside from screwing up?”

Now I’m wide fucking awake. I pop up on my elbow. “Stop,” I growl. “Stop doing that.”

She blinks back at me in surprise. “Doing what?”

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