How to Love Your Neighbour(3)

“You stop by your house?” John stepped onto the small stoop.

Didn’t she just say no time? “I couldn’t. Not today.”

“Well, when you’re ready to get in there, my son is happy to help you with any of the renos.”

She nodded, her throat going thick. “Morty’s moving around better every day. Hopefully soon.”

John looked toward Morty’s house, shaking his head. “Fool. At our age, riding a scooter is just asking for a broken foot.”

That’s exactly what her boss–roommate– pseudograndfather had done. Which had delayed Grace’s plans by several months. Her skin felt too tight as she moved down the steps, looking back over her shoulder.

“Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson.” Doubtful, but a girl could hope.

“Girl your age ought to be starting a family of her own, not looking out for Morty. He’s my best friend but he’s taking advantage of you.”

“It was my choice to stay,” she reminded John, who was another pseudograndfather. Yup. Grace’s life was full of men. Just not the ones that would help her with the whole family of her own dream. “Also, don’t say a woman of my age.”

John barked out a raspy laugh. “If I were your age . . .”

She held her hand up, picking up the pace. “Don’t say that either. See you tomorrow.”

She walked/ran down the sidewalk, checking her phone as she went. Harlow was an older neighborhood of California, about an hour from Los Angeles and close to the beach. The street she lived on with Morty was a time warp compared to the surrounding area.

The one-level homes were an assortment of once-popular colors. Morty’s place was off-white with faded blue trim. She’d moved in four years ago, when she’d started her degree. Bounding up the single step, she turned the knob, only to find it locked. She never locked it when she went for walks.

Digging her key out of the inside pocket of her yoga pants, she fumbled with it, her heart racing faster. When she’d seen the ad to assist an elderly gentleman after hip surgery, she’d figured it was easy money. She had no idea how much more it would turn out to be.

She pushed the door open, and called out as she closed it. “Morty?”

The living room was empty, though the television was on, muted. Her pulse skipped once and not in the delicious way it had on the beach. Here she’d been lamenting her inability to move while he could be lying flat on his face. Which was how she’d found him six months ago after coming home from the lawyer’s.

She headed to the right, down the hallway that led to the bedrooms and a bathroom. His hip had healed well all those years ago, but they’d become friends, so Grace rented a room from him. She’d planned to move out after graduating from design school. Inheriting the house on the beach from grandparents she hadn’t known was a shock. Finding Morty on the sidewalk, hurt, had pushed everything else from her mind. He was seventy-two years old but acted like he had the body of a teenager. Which his body was constantly proving to him, he did not.

“Morty,” she called again, outside his bedroom door. Her brows crinkled. He was moving around in there. She could hear something. Leaning forward, she rapped her knuckles on the door.

Rapid cursing was followed by a woman’s voice. Grace groaned. Seriously? I can’t do this. Several thumps told her he was using his cane, but when the door swung open, it was confirmed. So were too many other things. His hair was a mess; his pajamas were askew. Grace slapped a hand over her eyes.

“Why don’t you listen to your messages? What’s the point of having one of them stupid phones if you aren’t going to use it? I’m going to start putting a sock on the front door.”

“Morty. Be nice. Hi, Gracie. Sorry to startle you, dear.”

“Hi, Tilly. Sorry to interrupt.” Grace backed up as she spoke to Morty’s longtime lady friend. He refused to call her his girlfriend because he wasn’t “a damn high schooler.”

“Not interrupting, dear. Don’t let him make you feel bad. I was just forcing him to do his exercises.”

Eyes still covered, Grace pointed in the direction of the bedroom, hopefully at her roommate. “I knew your foot was bugging you.” The doctor said it had healed well but he needed to take it easy.

“Don’t need a damn mother.”

She dropped her hand to look at him. She sighed, trying to quell her longings, but they bubbled up. Maybe it was exhaustion or the fact that she hadn’t gotten to see the house today or the hot guy on the beach or Morty having more of a social life than she did. Whatever it was, she broke. “You’re right. You don’t. I have to get ready for work but I wanted to let you know I’m going to be moving into the bungalow. It’s time.”

His face registered shock. “I thought you might sell it and stay here.”

Tilly turned, giving them the illusion of privacy.

She stepped closer. “I don’t want to sell it. My grandparents left it to me. It’s the only link to family I have.” She regretted the words instantly.

“Guess I’m sour onions.” He harrumphed. For real. Like some comic-book character.

“You know what I mean. It’s time. I want to be there.” She glanced at Tilly. “You don’t need me.”

Something she couldn’t read came into his gaze. “You just going to go live your own life now. Done with me? Just like that?”