Cement Heart(6)

I nodded. “I’m sure you will.”

“All right, I gotta go.” Grabbing her purse off my dresser, she walked over and bent down to kiss me good-bye.

“What about my hoodie?” I mumbled through the kiss.

Darla pulled away and narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ll bring it back, you big baby.”

I yawned and lay back down on the bed. “You coming back tonight?”

“Maybe.” She blew me a kiss and turned down the hall.

“What do you mean maybe?” I called after her.

“Gotta see what other offers present themselves,” she yelled back from my kitchen.

I couldn’t help but smile as I heard the clink of the cookie jar on the counter.

She knows me so damn well.



Gam’s little ranch house was modest but really well taken care of, considering her stubborn eighty-nine-year-old ass wouldn’t let me hire a landscaper. Not a flower out of place or a bush overgrown. It was her pride and joy, other than me of course.

The hum of my motorcycle brought Gam out to her front porch.

She tipped her watering can toward some weird pink puffballs in a pot as I took my helmet off and secured it to the back of my bike.

“You’re so goddamn loud. The whole neighborhood knows when my grandson comes over.” She smiled, shaking her head. I walked up the white wooden steps to her porch and she offered me her cheek.

“Gimmie a break.” I kissed her. “These old bats living in your community can’t hear shit.”

“You win.” She nodded. “Here, come sit.”

We walked over to the two white wicker chairs on her porch, and I collapsed into one, still tired and a bit hungover from the night before.

She stared down at me, studying my face. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. I feel like hell.”

“Let me get you something to drink.” She patted my knee and disappeared into the house.

I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Her porch smelled sweet from all the flowers that surrounded it. A bird annoyingly chirped somewhere from one of the twenty bright-colored birdhouses I’d hung in her trees a few years ago. Birds were her passion, especially cardinals. They were her favorite. She would sit and watch them all day long and talked about them like they were her friends. She also talked about the squirrels. Scratch that, more like bitched about the squirrels. Holy shit did she hate them.

The door hinge creaked as she came back out carrying a tray with our drinks in mason jars, as usual.

“Here, drink this.” She handed me a glass of sweet tea along with a couple aspirin. “And take those. You really do look like shit.”

I smiled and shook my head as I washed the pills down with a swig of tea.

“So, what’s new with you?” I leaned back in my chair.

“Well, I’m not dead yet, so that’s something to celebrate.” She raised her jar in the air before taking a drink.

I looked back and forth from my glass to hers. “Why does your tea look different?”

“Because my tea is whiskey.” She grinned proudly.

“Whiskey?” I stared at it incredulously before checking the time on my phone. “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”

“Lawrence, when you’re my age, you learn to do things when you want to do them, not when it’s socially acceptable. Hell, who knows if I’ll still be around at dinner time? While we’re on the subject, I had half a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream for dinner last night. Cheers!” She raised her glass again and winked at me.

The silver curls on top of her head didn’t budge unless the wind blew at hurricane levels, the skin on her face was covered in wrinkles and laugh lines, and her glasses were thicker than my… hockey stick, but all of that was very deceiving. Knitting wasn’t her thing, she didn’t bake, and she didn’t complain about loud music or kids walking on her lawn. She was a foul-mouthed, whiskey-drinking badass who told it like it was and didn’t take crap from anyone. Even though she often complained about getting old, other than a bum knee and a little glaucoma, her health was great, and I was beyond thankful for that.

“How’s your knee feeling?” I asked. “The weather’s been weird the last couple days, really damp.”

“Oh, you know… the usual.” She shrugged. “If I sit too long, it tightens up. If I stand too long, it tightens up. When I get up in the morning, it’s tight. When I go to bed at night, it’s tight.”

“At least you’re consistent,” I joked.

“Enough about my old bones. Have you talked to your parents lately?”

The muscles in my arms tightened. “Nope,” I answered sharply, looking her straight in the eye, a gentle warning not to ask any more questions about it.