“Bitchy.”
She laughs. “Is she sleeping?”
“Faking it, probably.” I sigh and walk toward the door. A few paces away, I stop.
And sigh again.
Grandma says she’s not going to die, and as much as I’d like to think she’s made a deal with the devil, she’s just a woman. An old woman, who’s so scared of dying alone, she’s pushing me to find someone so the same thing doesn’t happen to me.
I turn around. The nurse glances up and shakes a finger at me. “Go,” she says. “We’ll take good care of her and you need a break. I know there’s no one else to call, but you’ve got to take care of yourself first. She’ll be happy to see you tomorrow and we’ll call if there are any changes.”
Even I don’t backtalk a nurse, so I turn around and make my way outside. I’m going to be later than usual, and even though we don’t have anything as formal as a date, Morgan will probably worry about me. I strap my helmet on, ignoring my loose hair, and fire my bike up.
I ease out onto the street and head toward Here. Grandma’s living community is another thirty or so miles northwest, away from the city. It’s for rich New Yorkers—like my grandmother—who want to spend their retirement enjoying the scenic beauty and small-town charm of the Catskills.
It’s all small country roads, and it’ll be a dream to ride my bike through in the fall. Right now though, it’s late August and summer was having its last gasp today. The wind whipping past feels good, but my leather jacket is too hot when I stop at lights and signs. My favorites sights are the bright yellow ones, trees that change suddenly, like someone’s come through and sucked all the blue out by the roots and changed the green to yellow.
In thirty-five minutes, I’m at the bar. The cowbell clangs overhead and this time I pause to look around. Everything’s back to normal, the somber mood from two weeks ago gone. The music’s loud and upbeat, the old ladies are in the corner booth, and I spot a few buckets of beers on the tables.
And then my eyes meet Morgan’s. His smile goes nuclear and my shoulders drop in relief. No more kicked-puppy look. We’re back to happy-go-lucky Morgan and all feels right in the world again.
By the time I sit down he’s got a bottle of my favorite beer waiting. I take a big swig, finishing nearly half the bottle before I set it down.
“How are you today, my queen?”
“Better now,” I answer.
His eyes twinkle, and he walks down the bar, probably to put my order in. I take another sip, and then the music gets turned down.
“Excuse me, everyone!” Morgan shouts. He holds his hands up. “Excuse me!”
The din slowly fades and all the faces in the bar turn toward him. He starts walking back toward me, a massive smile on his face. What is he up to?
“Everyone, thank you for your attention. I’ve got something I want to say here to Rory.”
Uh-oh. He’s standing in front of me now, and the bar is dead quiet. Nerves flutter in my stomach. Grandma’s words are loud in my head.
. . . you’re going to say yes tonight or so help me god, I will die on you!
Oh my god. I’m finally going to say yes.
“Rory . . .” he announces. Then his brows draw together and his voice returns to a normal level. “Rory . . . uhh . . . what’s your last name?”
“Morgan, what are you doing?” I hiss.
“What’s your last name?” he whispers.
“Fox. Why?—”
“Rory Fox!” He’s back to speaking loudly again. Morgan reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. It catches the light, flashing as he holds it between two fingers and offers it to me. I have a split second to realize it’s a diamond ring before he blows my mind. “Rory Fox, will you marry me?”
Morgan
* * *
Rory’s eyes are the size of dinner plates as she stares down at my grandmother’s ring. The whole bar is deathly quiet, waiting on her answer.
Any moment now, she’s going to react. Worst-case scenario, she rolls her eyes and looks unimpressed. Best-case scenario, she laughs her ass off, tells me I’m an idiot, and I say something smooth and clever, like “Well, if you don’t want to marry me, then how about a first date?”