Chapter 8 Sleeping Arrangements
Sleeping Arrangements
brOOKS
Iwhite-knuckle the steering wheel after I pick Sydney up from her townhouse, the silence between us thick enough to slice with a blade. We’re heading to tell my sick grandmother that we’re in love.
Love. The word makes something twist in my gut.
I remind myself that this is about making Meema happy during her treatment, not about the way Sydney’s damn shampoo smell is filling my SUV, or how she keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
“So.” Sydney finally breaks the silence, her voice high. “We should probably get our story straight.”
I grunt, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead. Snow covers the trees lining Woodsville Road, a reminder that winter hit in early October.
When I don’t elaborate, she continues, “You know, how we got together, when it happened... the basics of our epic love story.”
The sarcasm in her voice makes me twitchy. “We can keep it simple. Been dancing around each other for years, finally stopped fighting it.”
“That’s... actually not terrible.” She sounds surprised I had a decent suggestion. “When did it start? Specifically?”
I consider this, turning onto Kingston Lane, the private gravel road that leads to Meema’s house.
“Eight weeks ago. After you drove her to chemo—two months ago. You came to Boise to give me the update on her treatment progress. You were there for her, and I realized...” I pause, the words coming from somewhere genuine.
“I realized you were her rock when I couldn’t be. And that meant everything to me.”
Sydney stares at me, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s... good. Very believable.” She blinks before she says, “Then, what? We had a heart-to-heart? Started making out immediately? What’s the vibe here, Brooksie?”
My jaw clenches at the thought of making out with Sydney Holt.
Not because it sucks—which is the problem.
“Heart-to-heart,” I say firmly. “We talked about the past, cleared the air. Then I asked you to dinner. Wait, no, we can’t use a public place where it can be verified that we weren’t there. I made you dinner.”
“Romantic.” She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight flush on her cheeks. “Fine. You made me your infamous chicken parm. I’ll say I loved it even though I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
She lifts her chin. “And I’ll try to sound wistful when I tell people about our deep, meaningful conversation that finally broke through years of animosity. Then you kissed me.”
“Right. But just a brief one. Leaving you wanting more.”
Sydney snorts. “Confident much?”
“On that one I am.”
The SUV crunches to a stop in front of Meema’s house. I kill the engine but don’t move to get out. There’s something we need to settle first.
“Ground rules.” I turn to face her fully for the first time since we left her townhome. “No physical stuff. Outside of what we have to do in public.”
Sydney guffaws. “Duh.”
“You laugh now, but some say I’m pretty irresistible.” I run a hand through my hair—a nervous habit.
“No problem whatsoever.” Her voice is dry, but there’s a defensiveness beneath it. “I’m as committed to keeping this professional—just as you are.”
“Good. Because Jonah made me promise to stay away from you, and this already feels like breaking that promise.”
Something flashes across her face—confusion, maybe?—before a smirk takes over. “Huh. I guess my brother does love me.”
“Funny. Anyway,” I continue quickly, “we need to make this look convincing without crossing any lines. Hand-holding, an arm around the shoulder, a chaste kiss in public. That’s it.”
“Again. Fine by me.” She unbuckles her seatbelt with more force than necessary. “Just remember to use your words when we’re out. The whole caveman grunt thing doesn’t exactly scream ‘passionate relationship.’”
“Fine.” I step out of the SUV. The cold air still carries the scent of pine and the lake beyond the trees. “Ready?”
Sydney takes a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be to lie to a sweet old woman with cancer.”
Guilt hits—hard. “Lies are okay if they help someone without hurting them,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as Sydney. Reminder: keeping up Meema’s spirits improves the effectiveness of the treatment.
“I know.” Her voice softens. “I want her to be happy and recover too.”
We stand there, united in our concern for Meema. It feels strange, this momentary truce after years of badgering each other. Not unpleasant, just... unfamiliar.
The front door opens before we reach it, revealing Meema in her shawl. Her face lights up when she sees us together, and the guilt in my chest twists sharper.
“There you are, Brooksie.” Her voice is stronger than it was this morning. “I was beginning to think you’d headed back to Boise.” She smiles at Sydney. “And you’re here too. Good—I have the albums ready.”
“Meema.” I hurry up the steps to help her. “You shouldn’t be standing in the doorway. It’s too cold.”
“Oh, hush.” She waves me away but allows me to guide her back inside. “I’m not made of glass.”
Sydney follows us in, closing the door against the chill. Her smile is in place, but I can see the tension around her eyes.
Once we’re settled in the living room, Meema with the albums stacked on the coffee table in front of her, I say, “Before you and Sydney get to work, I… we have something to tell you.”
“Okay.” Her eyes go wide as she looks back and forth at us.
I glance at Sydney, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod. Here goes nothing.
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught with booze. “Sydney and I... we’re together.”
Meema’s face splits into a grin so wide it must hurt. “I knew it! I knew there was something between you two!”
“We were trying to keep it quiet.” Sydney moves to sit beside me on the couch—close but not touching. “With Brooks’ hockey and my job at the station...”
“But seeing how happy it made you when you thought we might be a couple,” I continue, “we wanted you to know the truth.”
“Oh, my dears.” Meema’s eyes fill with tears, and she reaches out to grasp both our hands. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
The genuine joy on her face makes it impossible to regret the web of lies we’re weaving. Right now, there’s a spark in her eyes that’s been missing for years.
“When did this happen?” She doesn’t let go of our hands.
Sydney jumps in. “It started two months ago, after I drove you to chemo. I went to Boise to fill Brooks in on everything with you, and he and I had a long talk about... everything. The past, the present. We realized we’d been fighting our feelings for years.”
“Years!” Meema crows. “I knew it! On Zoom last night, I told the Beaver Bookies, ‘Those two have chemistry,’ and all the ladies agreed!”
The Beaver Bookies are the local book clubbers… and they meet via Zoom now?
Sydney’s hand twitches in Meema’s grasp, and I can tell she’s struggling not to look at me. I focus on a point just above Meema’s head, afraid that if our eyes meet, we’ll both lose it.
“And now,” Meema’s voice takes on a scheming quality I know all too well, “Sydney can move in here to help you with your shoulder!”
Sydney makes a choking sound that she disguises as a cough. “Move in? I don’t think—”
“It makes perfect sense,” Meema barrels on, releasing our hands to clap hers together.
She looks at me. “You can barely change your own shirts with that injury,” she says, pivoting to Sydney, “and you’re here most days, anyway.
Plus, it would ease my mind knowing someone’s taking care of him when I’m. .. not feeling my best.”
The implication hangs in the air—when she gets worse or passes away—and that does it. Syd and I are toast—we can’t say no now.
But feeling guilty, I say, “Meema, Sydney has her own place,” even though I know it’s futile.
“Nonsense! That tiny townhome? With the neighbors who play death metal at all hours?” Meema shakes her head firmly. “No, it’s decided. Sydney will stay here. After all, you two are in love! It’s only natural.”
Sydney shoots me a desperate look, clearly hoping I’ll find a way out of this. But how can I without revealing our lie? And truthfully, a small, selfish part of me is relieved at the thought of someone else being here to help with Meema if things get worse.
“Actually,” Sydney says finally, her voice careful, “I could stay for a while. To help out.”
The relief that floods Meema’s face is worth whatever awkwardness this arrangement will cause. “Wonderful!”
Sydney forces a smile. “I can take the guest room—”
“Oh, don’t be silly, dear,” Meema interrupts. “I know what goes on. You and Brooks can share his room.”
Now it’s my turn to choke on nothing. Share my room? The whole point of our ground rules was to maintain distance, and now she’s saying we should sleep together? Well, not sleep together, but... sleep together.
Meema’s eyes twinkle. “I may be old, but I’m not na?ve. You two will just end up sneaking into each other's rooms anyway, and that’ll wake me up.”
Before either of us can respond to this bombshell, she pushes herself up from her chair with surprising energy and shuffles over to the antique chest in the corner. After a moment of digging, she pulls out a statue that looks like a wooden dick with a face.
“This,” she says, holding it up proudly, “is the Kingston family fertility statue.”
Sydney goes rigid beside me, her face crimson. “The... what now?”
“The fertility statue!” Meema repeats, as if that’ll make it less messed up. “It’s been in the family for generations. Any couple who sleeps near it will be blessed with children within the year.”
She hobbles over and places it in Sydney’s lap. Sydney holds it like it might bite her, careful to touch as little of it as possible.
“That’s... wow.” Sydney’s voice is strangled. “What a unique heirloom.”
“I’ve been saving it for the right moment.” Meema pats Sydney’s cheek affectionately. “And now here you are, with my Brooksie. It’s perfect.”