Chapter 20
Mary
Idon’t even make it three steps past the doorway before I’m crushing Grandma in my arms. She feels smaller than I remember, but warm, solid. Smells like coffee and vanilla and the cinnamon she always sprinkles on toast. My throat gets tight, because God, I’ve missed this.
“You’ll crack my ribs, girl,” she laughs, though she doesn’t let go. Her voice is scratchy but strong.
I finally pull back enough to look at her. Her cheeks are pink, her hair pinned up neatly, glasses perched where they belong for once. She looks good—really good. Better than I expected, considering I’ve been bracing myself for the opposite. Nurse Ruth is apparently a miracle worker.
“You look beautiful,” I say, meaning it.
She waves me off. “Flattery from family doesn’t count.”
“It does when it’s true.” I grin, sinking into the couch beside her. Guilt nips at me anyway. I should’ve been here sooner, should’ve come last week, should’ve checked in more than just phone calls. But the way her hand pats mine like she already forgives me? It’s enough to make me want to cry.
We sit for a while, catching up on nothing—her complaining about her neighbor’s dog, me telling her about what happened in the break room.
I can still picture Stephanie’s face turning blotchy red, Janice’s fork clattering against her plate.
“They tried the usual digs,” I say, unable to hide my grin. “Called me a convenient plus-one for the gala invite. But this time… I didn’t fold.”
Grandma raises her brows.
“I told them it’s nice not having to tear people down to feel good about myself. Then I wrapped up my sandwich and walked out like I owned the place.”
Her laughter fills the room, sharp and delighted. “That’s my girl.” She pats my hand, her smile fierce. “About damn time you stopped letting people walk all over you.”
The warmth in my chest spreads like sunlight. For once, I’m not just the one who endures. I’m the one she’s proud of.
Then it tumbles out. “Evan and I broke up.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t tilt her head or ask why, doesn’t poke at the wound. She just gives my hand another squeeze, the kind that says, “You’re still mine, no matter what.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says simply.
Proud. For failing at a relationship. I let out a watery laugh, but it doesn’t feel bad. More like relief.
Conversation drifts, and somehow we land on my father. It’s always like this with us—his ghost sneaks in sooner or later.
“Have you heard from David?” Grandma asks, like she already knows the answer.
I shake my head. “Not in six months.”
The only time he ever reaches out is when he needs something signed. Legal papers. Life insurance updates. Tax documents. That’s my father’s version of staying in touch: forwarding responsibility.
“He sent me an email in March,” I admit. “Wanted me to confirm my social security number so he could update some beneficiary form.”
Grandma’s mouth tightens. “Of course.”
“Not a birthday call. Not a hey-how-are-you. Just paperwork.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “Guess I’m only useful when I fill a box on a line.”
She turns toward me, brown eyes steady, stubborn as ever.
“You’re not the one failing, Mary. He is. Always has been.”
The words hit like a balm and a knife at the same time.
I lean into her shoulder, letting the silence stretch. For once, I don’t feel like I need to fill it. She’s here. That’s enough.
After a while, she taps my knee. “You can’t live your life as proof to him, you know. Or to Evan. Or to anyone.”
I blink at her. “I’m not—”
“You are,” she says, not unkindly. “I see it in the way you fold yourself small. You bake like a dream, you talk about wanting a shop with books and music, but you never chase it. Why? Because you’re afraid of failing in front of people who don’t even show up.”
Her words sting because she’s right.
“I can’t just quit the bank,” I mutter. “I need the paycheck.”
“Paychecks keep the lights on,” she says. “But dreams keep you alive. Don’t trade one for the other forever.”
I stare at the little ceramic gnome outside the window, faded from the sun but still standing guard by her mailbox. My chest aches.
“You think I could really do it? A bakery?”
And then it hits me. The bracelet on my wrist. The watch. The expensive little shackles Anton insisted on. They can hear me. They can hear everything.
My stomach drops. I’ve never told anyone about the bakery. Not Evan. Not even Jasper.
Her hand closes over mine, firm despite the tremor.
“I think you could do anything, so long as you stop waiting for men to tell you you’re worth it.”
My throat locks up. All I can do is nod and press my forehead to hers, soaking in the only truth that’s ever mattered: her faith in me.
And then— Grrrk.
Of course. My stomach decides this is the moment to sing the song of its people.
Grandma chuckles, sharp and warm. “Sounds like somebody’s been skipping meals again.” She pushes herself up from the couch with surprising steadiness. “Come on. Let’s feed you before you waste away.”
“I’m not wasting away,” I protest, heat crawling up my neck. “I had a sandwich at work.”
She shoots me a look over her glasses. “One sad, wilted sandwich between snide comments from those women doesn’t count. You need real food.”
I groan, but follow her anyway. “So judgmental about sandwiches.”
“So judgmental about my granddaughter starving,” she corrects, already shuffling into the kitchen. “Now get in here. You can chop while I stir.”
The kitchen fills with the rhythm of us moving around each other—me slicing tomatoes while Grandma hums some old tune and stirs a pan of garlic sizzling in oil. She slides in onions, lets them soften, then tips my chopped tomatoes into the pan with a satisfied little nod.
By the time pasta is boiling and sauce thickens, the air smells like comfort itself. We carry everything to the dining table—two mismatched plates, steam rising between us, the kind of meal that tastes like memory more than recipe.
“This is perfect,” I mumble around a bite, sauce clinging to my fork.
“Of course it is,” she says, pleased. “I raised you on better food than overnight Chinese takeout.”
I roll my eyes but smile, settling into the chair that’s always been mine. Only now I notice the wobble; every time I lean forward, the leg creaks like it’s one shift away from snapping. The whole table tips a fraction when Grandma sets her glass down, and she doesn’t even flinch. She’s used to it.
“Be careful with that,” I say, tapping the tabletop. “This thing’s a death trap.”
She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “That table’s older than you are, sweetheart. Seen more Thanksgiving turkeys than a mall Santa.”
“I should fix it,” I say. “I don’t even own a hammer, though. I can’t—” My voice trails off because the list of reasons I don’t do things is a mile long, and I can feel them all like stitches under my skin.
Grandma waves it off. “That table’s been crooked since your mother was alive. I keep meaning to prop it with a folded magazine.”
I run my hand along the wood, the seam of the leg cracked just enough to make it shift with every movement. My chest tightens. It’s not dangerous yet, but it’s one more thing on her long list of little repairs she pretends don’t matter.
But everything else feels better now. Better as in Grandma looks stronger, healthier, even. Nurse Ruth has been keeping up with her meds, making sure she eats, and it shows in the color back in her cheeks. For the first time in months, she doesn’t look like she’s fading.
And yet… When does this end? When does the good stretch out and stay instead of snapping back into something worse?
The thought curdles, pulling me under. I blink too fast, a sting building behind my eyes.
Stupid. I tell myself it’s relief, but the truth creeps in anyway.
What if this is it? What if this is as close to safe as I’ll ever feel, because there’s no Anton here?
No green eyes watching from the shadows.
No one pulling me back when the ground goes out beneath my feet.
How long does this last? A week? A month?
The ache is sharp and sudden, and before I can stop it, a tear slips down my cheek. I swipe it away fast, hoping Grandma didn’t see, pasting on a smile that feels stiff around the edges.
But my chest won’t settle. My pulse keeps tripping over itself like my body knows something my brain won’t name.
Great. Add “random weeper” to my growing list of personality flaws.
The last plate clinks into the rack, soap sliding down my wrist as I rinse away the suds. My stomach is full, my heart… heavier than I’d admit, and my brain already racing ahead.
Plan B. I need to get it tonight. Should’ve gotten it days ago. The Walgreens on Charleston is open, I could call a Grab, sneak out, pretend I’m just going home—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I freeze, a wet dish towel balled in my fist. Grandma looks up from her recliner, brow furrowed.
“Expecting someone?”
Nope. Not even a little.
The knocks come again, steady, deliberate.
I dry my hands, force my legs to move. When I pull open the door, the last person I expect is standing on the porch.
Anton.
Tall, broad, green eyes catching the porch light like they’ve been waiting for me.
He steps inside without asking, gaze sweeping the living room like it’s a crime scene he needs to clear.
His attention lingers on the wobbling table, the chipped doorframe, the faded carpet. Every flaw cataloged, filed, judged.
My heart kicks into double time. “What are you—?”
“Mary.” His voice is low, steady, and for some reason, my name sounds… safe in his mouth. Dangerous too, but safe in a way I can’t explain.
Grandma blinks from her chair, clearly confused. “And you are…?”
Before I can fumble out a half-truth, he answers with a faint dip of his head. “A friend.”
I nearly choke. Anton Malikov, professional menace, claiming friendship in my grandmother’s living room.
“Some friend,” Grandma mutters, eyeing his suit jacket and boots. “Doesn’t knock like a neighbor, I’ll tell you that much.”
Before I can reply, the door swings wider and chaos tumbles in.
Lev first, grinning like he’s auditioning for a toothpaste ad, arms loaded with brown paper grocery bags.
“Hello, sunshine!” he beams at me, sweeping into the kitchen like he owns it. “Well, now I see where Mary gets it,” he announces, eyes twinkling at Grandma. “Class, charm, and the kind of presence that makes a man want to mind his manners.”
Grandma blinks, clearly caught off guard, then slowly turns to me. Her stare is the kind that used to stop me mid-sentence as a teenager.
Explain. Now.
“What are you… guys doing here?” she demands, the sharp edge in her voice making me want to melt through the floorboards.
“I—uh—” I start, but Anton cuts in smoothly, lowering himself into the creaking armchair.
“We just thought we’d swing by. Pick Mary up.”
Pick me up? From Grandma’s? Who does that?
The chair groans under his weight, and I swear the whole house groans with it.
Grandma folds her arms. “Pick her up for what?”
I want to shove them all right back out the door, but then the doorframe fills with a new shadow.
Dima.
Silent. Towering. Covered in tattoos that look like they belong in an FBI file. And he’s carrying enough grocery bags to restock Costco.
Grandma’s eyes widen so far that I think they might roll out of her head.
“Surprise?” I squeak, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup.
Because what else can I do? What else do you do when three heavily tattooed men invade your grandmother’s yellow kitchen with a week’s worth of produce?
“They’re my… friends,” I blurt. “From… the gym.”
“The gym,” Grandma repeats flatly, gaze darting between Lev unloading organic kale, Anton lounging like it’s poker night, and Dima silently lining up milk cartons like soldiers.
“Yes! Gym friends. The… fun kind.” My laugh comes out way too high-pitched. “You know. Weights. Grocery delivery. Totally normal things.”
Grandma just stares.
“All right,” I mutter, face flaming. “That’s enough. Out. All of you.”
Lev looks up, affronted. “But we brought eggs!”
“Out!” I’m already herding them toward the door like unruly golden retrievers. “Grandma, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”
She’s still frozen by the fridge, eyes wide, lips pressed tight, but she nods once. Probably because arguing means keeping the three scary men inside longer.
I shove Lev through the doorway, Dima next with his arms still full of grocery bags, and finally Anton, who moves at the pace of a glacier just to spite me.
The door shuts behind us, and I whirl on them the second we’re on the porch.
“What the hell was that?” I hiss, waving wildly between them. “You can’t just… waltz into my grandma’s house! With… with spinach!”
Lev grins. “Technically, it was arugula.”
“Shut up, Lev.”
Anton slides his hands into his pockets, the breeze catching his hair. He doesn’t bother defending himself, doesn’t look even a little sorry. He just tips his head toward me like it’s already decided.
“It’s time to train.”
I gape at him. “You mean right now? After- after terrifying a seventy-three-year-old woman and breaking into her kitchen?”
Lev smirks. “Don’t be silly, your grandma likes us. I can tell.”
I just stare at him, completely out of words. Then, with a groan, I throw my hands up in the air like some cartoon character waving a white flag.
“Fine. Whatever. Do your thing. Ruin my life, scare my grandma, and—God help me—train me.”
Anton’s mouth curves, the smallest ghost of a smile, like I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted.
And that’s the problem.
Because maybe I have.