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“You’remy best friend,” I protest, nudging his knee.

“Oh, great. Your best friend is a crusty old man who has to sneak bacon to feel alive. Thrilling social life you got there.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m a terrible friend.” I try to say it lightly, like it’s a joke, but the truth is, it’s not really funny. I’m the girl who reads a message, mentally replies, and then forgets to hit send for six weeks. It’s not that I don’t care because I do. I just get overwhelmed. Life snowballs, and suddenly it’s been a month, and I’m too embarrassed to respond with ‘sorry, just seeing this’ because we both know that’s a lie.

I guess I’ve just been in survival mode for so long that I forgot what it’s like to be present for people who aren’t in crisis. And that’s not fair to anyone.

“You’ve always put everyone else first, Lena. Just promise me you’ll occasionally let someone else do the same for you.” Eventually, he relents and pats my hand. “I’m sure you’ll get the job, and you’ll be great at it. But promise me you’ll be careful. Text me the address.”

I should never have taught him how to do that because he’s never off the damn phone now.

Shaking my head, I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “I promise, you paranoid old bat.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, hesitant with what he’s about to say, which means I know what’s coming because Grandpa is never hesitant. “You spoken to your father lately?”

Same answer as last week. “Nope.”

“Tess must miss you?”

“I speak to her every day.”

“You practically raised her.”

As if I don’t feel guilty enough about leaving. “I know that. I make sure to see her every week, twice if I can, but she’s fourteen now, and too busy for her older sister.”

There must be something in my voice because he doesn’t press anymore.

As he finishes the last of his contraband breakfast, I fuss over him like I always do—adjusting pillows, checking the water pitcher, making sure his TV remote is within arm’s reach. Moments like this, I feel needed. It’s a nice reminder that no matter how complicated my life might be, I have a purpose here.

“Alright,” I say, once I know he’s settled. “I’d better get going if I don’t want to be late. First impressions and all.”

He waggles his fingers in a mock wave. “Tell your future employer I said hi. If he’s single, maybe let him know I’m accepting applications for a grandson-in-law.”

I bark out a laugh, ignoring the sudden flush in my cheeks. “You are not playing matchmaker for me again.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on. That lawyer wasn’tthatbad.”

I level him with a look. “He cried on our first date.”

“So he was in touch with his emotions.”

“Grandpa, he cried because the waiter brought him the wrong wine.”

I shake my head, biting back the rest of the story. Like how I still curse myself for falling into bed with Wine Tears after one too many glasses. I’m convinced he cried directly into my drink and drugged me with emotional damage. The man wanted to discuss ourcombined energymid-orgasm. His, obviously. I faked it so hard I deserved an Oscar.

A shudder works its way up my spine. “You’re officially banned from matchmaking.”

He lifts his chin, eyes sparkling. “What can I say? If you won’t find love, I’ll bring it to you.”

Love.

There’s that word again. I can’t decide if it feels like a big joke or a sweet possibility. Either way, it’s not something I have the mental energy to chase right now.

I lean over and kiss Grandpa’s forehead. “Don’t harass the nurses too much, okay? And for God’s sake, don’t die.”

“And give you a moment's peace? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

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