My phone rings, snapping me out of my reverie. For the briefest of moments, I actually think that maybe it’s Adam. He said he wanted to talk later, right?
It’s not.
It’s Grandma, also known as my landlord and the no-nonsense matriarch who lives on the first floor of the old Victorian duplex we share.
I know better than to ignore her call. She’ll keep trying until I pick up because she’s a persistent pain in my ass.
Sighing to myself, I brace for the call and answer. “Hi, Grandma. What’s up?”
“Carlie, darling, come downstairs for a chat,” she demands, not waiting for a response before hanging up.
I groan, not just at the prospect of navigating the stairs right now but also at whatever Grandma has in store for me.
Her‘chats’are never just chats.
They usually involve stories of when she was younger and progressively get more uncomfortable as she describes her escapades with Grandpa when he was alive.
I stare at my computer and make a face.
A break from this writer’s block might be what I need, though.
I brace myself and slowly stand up. My arms nearly give out and my abs scream bloody murder when I manage to get upright.
But all of that is a walk in the park compared to my legs.
You’d think three minutes on a treadmill wouldn’t be a big deal.
However, you’d be wrong.
There are muscles in my legs and ass I didn’t even know I had. And every single one of them is singing a course of‘What were you thinking?’
With a deep breath, I inch my way to the door, each stutter step is an exercise in pain management.
This old house, with all its charm and character, suddenly feels like my worst enemy. I curse under my breath for choosing the second floor when I moved in.
Sure, Grandma making it up and and down these stairs seemed unreasonable at the time, and the view of the garden is lovely, but right now, I’d trade it for a ground-floor studio in a heartbeat.
I reach the top of the steep staircase and peer down. It looms before me like a mountain.
“Who needs a gym when you have Victorian architecture?” I mutter sarcastically to myself. I’m only half-kidding.
Taking the first step feels like a leap of faith. I clutch the railing, my knuckles white, as I gingerly make my way down, gasping the entire time.
Halfway through, I have to pause. Each step sends jolts of pain through my sore muscles, reminding me of every sit-up, or crunch, I guess. Every relentless minute on the treadmill under Jillian’s unforgiving gaze.
“This better be worth it,” I grumble. “One word about Grandpa’s penis size …”
Finally, I reach the bottom, breathing heavily, feeling like I’ve just completed a marathon. I straighten up, trying to compose myself before facing Grandma.
I can’t show just how sore I really am—not with her. She’s the kind of woman who survived wars, outlived a husband, and still does her own gardening at the age of eighty-two.
I knock softly on her door, bracing for her usual brand of ‘tough love’ mixed with inappropriate comments.
The door swings open, and there she is, Grandma Elsie, in all her glory. Her white hair is pulled back in a tight bun, her dark blue eyes sharp as ever.
“Took you long enough,” she huffs with a mock frown, but her eyes are twinkling.
“I had to battle a dragon on the stairs,” I reply, stepping inside.