Chapter 3 Fight Is On
Fight Is On
brOOKS
“So you and Meema are... friends?”
I’m having a hard time picturing this relationship.
Sydney holds the door open. “Good friends, actually. We play poker every Friday afternoon. Well, we did before this last round of chemo hit her so hard.”
I cannot picture my grandmother playing poker with Sydney Holt. “Since when?”
“Since I did that feature on this property last year. I interviewed her about the lake’s history, and we just..
. clicked. She’s so easy to talk to—and she gave me really helpful advice when I needed it.
” She shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a woman in her twenties to befriend someone over forty years her senior.
“And now you just... come over whenever you want?”
“Pretty much.”
We reach the porch of the sprawling log cabin-style ranch house that’s been in my family for generations, and she grabs the door handle with the familiarity of someone who’s done it a hundred times before.
I climb the stairs behind her, albeit slower in my skates, and I do my best to keep my eyes off her ass.
After we both take off our coats, hats, and gloves, I ditch my skates and we enter the warm kitchen that smells like cinnamon and coffee, and it’s exactly the same as it was when I was little—worn oak table in the center, vintage appliances that somehow still work better than anything modern, copper pots hanging over the island.
Meema refuses to update anything, claiming new stuff doesn’t have “character.”
“Maisie!” Sydney calls out, her voice instantly warmer. “Look who I found lurking around your lake like the Loch Ness monster!”
A laugh echoes from the living room—that familiar, throaty chuckle that’s been the soundtrack to every happy memory of my childhood. “Did you two play nice?”
Sydney shoots me a glare, but her voice is bright. “Always! Brooks was just giving me some pointers about ice safety.”
We move into the living room, where Meema sits in her favorite armchair, a handmade quilt tucked around her thin legs. The TV is on, muted, showing a rerun of the broadcast we just finished.
Of course.
“Morning, Meema.” I lean down to kiss her papery cheek. She smells like roses and the hard candy she keeps in her pockets.
“There’s my least favorite grandson.” She pats my face with a hand that seems smaller than I remember. Her skin is almost translucent now, blue veins visible beneath the surface.
“I’m your only grandson,” I remind her, the familiar exchange as comforting as an old sweater.
“Details.” She waves a dismissive hand. “How’s the shoulder today?”
“Fine,” I lie, because what else am I supposed to say?
That it hurts like hell?
Sydney moves around the room with the ease of someone completely at home, straightening a pillow here, adjusting a photo frame there. She heads back to the kitchen without being asked and returns moments later with a mug of tea that she hands to Meema.
“Two sugars and hot enough to scald the devil.” Sydney smiles. “Just how you like it.”
Meema takes the mug with a grateful nod. “This girl knows me better than my own family,” she says, winking at me.
“How’s Gus doing today, Mais?” Sydney looks around for him.
“Still refusing to eat that diet food.” Meema perches her tea on the arm of the sofa. “I don’t blame him.”
They laugh together, and I stand there feeling like an outsider in my grandmother’s house. Who the hell is Gus? And wow, Sydney really is Meema’s friend.
“Who’s Gus?”
“My new dachshund,” Meema says. “He stayed with Janet last night, so you haven’t met him yet. Poor thing’s got more rolls than a bakery. The vet put him on a diet, but he’s staging a rebellion.”
“Ah,” I mutter, sitting on the couch.
“Sydney, be a dear and make Brooks some coffee, would you?” Meema sighs. “He likes it black, like his soul.”
Sydney laughs and heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my grandmother. The moment she’s gone, Meema’s expression turns serious.
“I saw what happened on the lake. You were eye-fucking her.”
I gasp. “Jesus, Meema.”
“What?” She shrugs. “Isn’t that what you kids say nowadays?
Because that’s what was happening.” She takes a sip of her too-hot tea without flinching.
“The whole county saw it, Brooksie. Nice try with the spraying ice in her face diversion—you might as well have pulled her pigtails. Anyway, you’re lucky that beaver sex show stole some of the spotlight, but I bet you two will still be the main attraction on the social media today. ”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Just what I need.”
“What you need,” Meema’s voice softens, “is someone who calls you on your bullshit. Someone who sees past The King to the boy I helped raise.”
“Not this again.”
“I may not have long, Brooksie. I get to say whatever I want.”
My heart clenches. “Don’t think that way. You’re going to live forever.”
“Right.” She sets her tea down with a clink.
The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin.
Her eyes, still sharp despite everything, fix on mine. “And if it’s my time, before I go, I’d like to see you settled. Happy.”
“I am happy.”
She waves my weak protest away like she’s batting a fly. “You’re lonely. You’ve been lonely since last year when that awful—”
“Meema,” I cut her off, flinching. We’re not talking about that.
“All I’m saying is, it’d do my old heart good to see you with someone special. Someone like Sydney, maybe.”
I nearly choke. One eye fuck and now we’re running off into the sunset? We annoy the hell out of each other, but I don’t want to pop Meema’s hopeful bubble, so I say, “Maybe.”
“I know you two have always thought you hated each other, but hate’s just passion pointing in the wrong direction.” She picks up her tea again, looking way too pleased with herself. “Besides, I’ve been laying the groundwork.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve told her all your good qualities. It only took about thirty seconds, but I think she was impressed.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Goal-oriented,” she corrects. “And since I probably won’t get to meet my great-grandchildren, the least you could do is let me see you in love with someone.”
The weight of her words—the finality of them—settles over me. “Meema...”
“Plus,” she continues, as if I hadn’t spoken, “you need someone to help you with that shoulder. Can’t even change your own shirts properly, can you?”
She’s not wrong. The injury makes certain movements almost impossible, which is why I’ve been living in button-ups and zip hoodies since I got injured.
Sydney returns with my coffee, and I take it gratefully, needing something to do with my hands. “Thanks.”
She nods, settling on the arm of the sofa. “So, what’d I miss?”
“Oh, I was just telling Brooks how nice it would be if he brought someone to my birthday party,” Meema says innocently. “A date, perhaps.”
Sydney’s eyes dart to mine, a flash of understanding crossing her face. “Maisie,” she warns.
“What? I’m just saying, two young, attractive single people... it’d be a shame to waste all that potential.”
“Subtle, Meema.” I sip the scalding hot black coffee and hope Sydney didn’t spit in it.
“I don’t have time for subtlety anymore,” she says, completely unapologetic.
Sydney stands clearly uncomfortable. “Something to consider for sure. But I should get going—gotta face Marcus after the mating beaver digression.”
“Of course, dear.” Meema reaches for her hand, squeezing it with obvious affection. “You’ll come by tomorrow to help me with my photo albums?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Sydney leans down to hug her, and I catch a whiff of something lavender and subtle—not the overpowering perfume I’d expect from someone so... Sydney.
She straightens up and nods at me, all business again. “You, Brooksie. Party on Saturday, five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with my grandmother and the echo of her words in the suddenly quiet house.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” A sly smile plays at the corners of Meema’s mouth.
“That’s one way to put it.” I take a long sip of coffee, trying to process everything that just happened.
Sydney and Meema are friends.
Sydney’s been taking care of my grandmother while I’ve been gone.
Sydney can’t stand me, and the feeling is mutual, except...
Except there was something about the way she moved through this house, the way she knew exactly how Meema likes her tea, the way she straightened that pillow without even thinking about it.
Something that got under my skin more than normal, and in a way I’m not about to analyze too closely.
I stare into my coffee, thinking about everything Sydney said.
About me not being here for Meema.
About my icy trail of shattered hearts.
About being an asshole since birth. Or in the womb.
She’s not wrong. But she doesn’t know the whole story.
I set my cup down quietly as Meema drifts off to sleep, exhausted by our brief interaction.
And in that quiet, I make a decision.
I’m going to try—really try—to be someone my grandmother can be proud of. And do everything I possibly can for her right now.
Even if it means dealing with Sydney Holt and all the complicated feelings she stirs up.