Page 20 of Kylo
“Believe it or not, old people still like having sex, my dear. In fact, it seems like we are doing it more than your generation is.”
“Is that a dig?” I asked.
“Maybe a small one. Just because your last boyfriend wasn’t a keeper doesn’t mean you can’t entertain other men. Can you honestly tell me you haven’t seen a single man you’d like to take to bed since you moved here?”
Again, it was Kylo who flashed across my mind.
“If not, there’s this house across the street,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “And it is jam-packed full of delicious young men. The girls and I, we set up folding chairs and sit and watch them when they wash their motorcycles.”
“Grammy! That’s so creepy.”
“It would be creepy if we were watching from Loretta’s window with binoculars,” she said in a way that suggested they may have done that first. “We are just a bunch of women casually having some lemonade on the lawn.”
“You are too much.”
“I am having the time of my life, my dear.”
“You really are.”
“Which brings me to my next order of business,” she said, dropping down across from me at the table.
“Okay. What’s that?”
“You.”
“Me? You mean the business? It’s going… well.” Inwardly, I winced at that pause. I had to carefully avoid letting her know there was anything about Vital Greens that I wasn’t telling her. And I couldn’t tell her. No matter how much it was eating me alive to keep it quiet.
I simply couldn’t tell her. It was too dangerous.
While the assisted living facility was relatively safe, it wasn’t the kind of safe where men with guns would be deterred if they wanted to find her and use her against me.
“The business is the only thing I’m not worried about.”
If only she knew.
“I’m okay, Grammy,” I said, thinking that she was worried my mental health was in the toilet again.
“Are you, though? Today is your day off. And you’re here with me. And judging by those bleach spots on your shorts and tee, you spent the morning doing what? Cleaning and laundry?”
“And shopping,” I grumbled.
“None of that represents a social life, Rue.”
“I know. It’s just… hard. I don’t know anyone. And even if I did, what, am I just supposed to ask someone to hang out?”
“Yes, my dear. That is how people make friends.”
“It feels awkward.”
“Because you’re out of practice. Try it with someone low-pressure. Maybe someone you see all the time at the coffee shop or something like that. Each time you do it, it will get easier. I’m not just being nosy here. I’m concerned about you. It’s not human nature to be alone all the time.”
“I hang out with Traeger at work.”
“And he’s the only reason I haven’t come to you about this sooner. But it doesn’t sound like you go out with him much, and I think you need to really try to make a friend or join a club. It’s important. For the community, the connection, and even just for something to look forward to.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I could feel it creeping up on me for the past six months or so—a sadly familiar sensation of hopelessness, of bleakness. It wasn’t anything bad, not yet. But I knew the signs. I knew thatI had to keep my eye on it. Then I had to act if things took a nosedive.
