She purses her thin lips, forcing a poor show of innocence. “Isn’t that what your girlfriend said?”
“You were watchingEllen,”I accuse, forgetting for a moment that she’s ill. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”
My aunt looks back and forth between us, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I tell her.
“Clearly not.”
Aunt Josie’s obvious amusement has me glaring back at my grandmother. “How could you possibly have heard that with the TV on?”
Her lips draw down in apparent disinterest. “My remote has a mute button. Same as everybody’s.”
Josie snickers, and I shake my head. “I can’t believe you.”
Grandma Quincy closes her eyes and frowns. “Don’t fuss me. I’m sick.”
At this, Aunt Josie tips back her head and laughs with abandon. “Drama Mama,” she mutters.
My grandmother opens her eyes and gives her daughter a scowl. “Now that I’m sitting up, I think I need to move to the bed.”
I almost protest. Getting her to sit up was torture enough.
“My legs don’t hurt,” she says. “Just my trunk.”
We help her up and, she’s right, the worst part is getting her to her feet. Once she’s on them, she moves on her own, albeit slowly, across the house. Even so, I stay by her side in case she loses her balance. She’s still feverish. Plus, she’s eighty-three.
When we get to her room, Grandma Q stops at the foot of the bed. “Josephine, I think you’ll need to help me into a nightgown.”
I look at my aunt. “You can manage from here?”
She nods, but before I can leave, Grandma Quincy grips my wrist. “Do me a favor, Andrew. I haven’t eaten all day. Walk down to Champagne’s and get me some boudin and a dinner roll, would you?”
“Of course, Grandma. Anything else?”
She presses her lips together in a moue. “Maybe some ginger ale?” Then she releases my wrist and pats my hand. “And get something for your dinner while you’re there. You can take my card. It’s the green one in my wallet.”
I’m grateful I had the chance to go to the bank. There’s no way I’m going into her purse for her card.
“I got it, Grandma.”
Once outside, I’m relieved to be alone. The mention of Evie left my nerves raw and exposed. I sent her away on Saturday, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about her.
Or looking for her.
Every time I’m on the stairs, coming to or from my apartment, my eyes are trained on her house. At night, probably four times a night before I collapse in bed, I look out my window for the light in hers.
When it’s on, it feels like someone’s lit a sparkler in my chest.
Two nights ago, sometime after ten, I was about to turn in and checked it one last time. As I looked, her light went out, and the knowledge that she was climbing into bed less than an acre away set me ablaze.
I stretched out on the futon, and God help me, I let myself picture what she wore to bed. Nothing frilly. Nothing out of a Victoria’s Secret ad. Evie doesn’t need lace trim or a satin cami set to make her feel beautiful.
Not that she doesn’t deserve it. She deserves everything fine. Nothing’s too good for her.
But she wouldn’t choose fancy. She’d choose simple. Comfortable. And, yeah, probably organic cotton or some shit like that. And no matter what it was — an old T-shirt or a tank top and shorts — it would look fucking amazing on her.
And, no, I did not toss off in bed thinking of Evie in her pajamas. Watching her bedroom window and then jerking off would feel like I’d violated her. It would feel like I’d stolen something from her.