Maybe she’s sleeping? I knock louder. Still no answer.
A terrible thought occurs to me and my heart starts to pound. Please please please let her just be sleeping. Please don’t let me be too late.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.
The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but they’re so thin the midday sun filters right through them, casting enough light that I can see Gran propped up in bed, a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are closed but they slowly flutter open when she hears me enter.
I sag with relief.
“Gran? It’s me,” I say. I sit down in the plastic chair beside her bed.
She’s not wearing her glasses and it takes her a second to focus. I think I see a flicker of recognition in her blue eyes. I reach for her hand. It’s knobby and warm and so familiar that it makes me want to bawl. I squeeze my eyes shut, to keep the tears from spilling over. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Not in front of her. Not until I’m alone.
“Someone brought you flowers,” I say, noticing the wilting tulips on her nightstand. Purple—her favorite color—arranged in a simple glass vase. The scarred wooden table is littered with tissues, a half-filled coffee mug, a small windup travel clock. So different from her nightstand at home, which was always stacked high with romance novels. Gran can’t read anymore—she doesn’t have the patience, but even if she did, I doubt she’d remember how.
I think that’s the worst part of this disease. Everything Gran loved—her books, her house, her family—is lost to her. Just as she’s lost to us.
Suddenly, Gran struggles to sit up. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” Her eyes widen in panic and confusion. It kills me to see her look at me like that. Like she’s never seen me before. Like I am someone who could hurt her.
“It’s okay, Gran. It’s Quinn.” I squeeze her hand. Maybe there’s something familiar about my fingers, too, because she relaxes and her eyes get this dreamy look.
“I have a granddaughter named Quinn,” she says. “Do you know her?”
I nod. “We’ve met.”
Gran reaches up and pulls the ruby hairpin out of her white dandelion-fluff hair, the one my granddad gave her when they got married, and presses it into my palm. The red, heart-shaped stone twinkles in my hand. “Could you give this to her? I’ve been saving it for her.”
I lose the battle with the tears—they spill over my cheeks, fall like raindrops into my lap. “I’ll make sure she gets it,” I say.
Gran’s eyelids are already starting to shut. She falls asleep quickly and I continue to watch her, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, remembering all the stories she told me about growing up in England. The story of her life.
I need to find a way to get to London. It may be too late for me to make enough money for the band trip, but I will start saving again, until I have enough to go. I will get there. And when I do, I will visit every place Gran has ever told me about. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll find something of her there.
I wipe the sleeve of my cardigan over my eyes. When I stand up to straighten her blanket, I hear someone enter the room.
I turn around and Wesley is standing in the doorway, holding a bunch of purple tulips. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a black T-shirt, his normally wild blond hair tucked neatly behind his ears.
My heart swells. Happiness sweeps through me as my brain finally recognizes what my heart knew all along,
I love Wesley James.
How could I not have known that, all this time?
Unfortunately, if the grimace on Wesley’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t feel the same way.
“I’ll come back,” he says, turning on his heel.
“Wes, wait.”
He stops and looks at me warily. I can tell he’s debating whether or not to just continue down the hall, so I jump in before he makes up his mind to leave.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls,” I say.
“Yeah, well. It took me a while, Quinn, but I finally got it,” he says bitterly. “You’ll never forgive me.”
My stomach tightens. I have really made a mess of things. “There’s nothing to forgive you for,” I say. “Obviously, it’s not your fault my parents got divorced. Blaming you for that was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Wesley’s fingers tighten on the bouquet and the flowers shake a little. “You got me fired.”
I wince. He may not have called me back, but clearly he’s listened to my messages. I knew that the only way forward was to be honest with him about everything, even if he ended up hating me for it.
And it’s pretty evident that he hates me.
“I got Amy fired, too, if that makes you feel any better,” I say. “And I talked to Joe and he says the job is yours again if you want it.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
He’s not reacting in the way I expected him to. I thought he’d be happy to have his job back. I thought … well, maybe I thought there was hope for us. Despite everything.
“I don’t think I can work there anymore. Not with the way things are between us,” he says. “I was hoping that we could be friends—”
Friends? Something breaks open in my heart. I don’t want to be friends with Wesley. I want more than that. So much more.
“But I just don’t see how that’s possible now,” he continues. “There’s too much history. You can say you’ve forgiven me, but the truth is, Quinn, I’m not sure I forgive you.”
The air is pushed out of my lungs. I feel like I’m underwater, a long, long way below the surface. I don’t know how to make this up to him—I don’t know if I ever can—and that’s a difficult thing to have to live with.
Now I know exactly how Wesley felt.
“I’ll quit Tudor Tymes,” I say.
Wesley’s eyebrows snap up toward his hairline. “What?”
“I’ll quit,” I repeat. “If working with me makes you uncomfortable, then I’ll resign.”
“So you want me to work there, without you?” His lips twitch, like he’s fighting one of his trademark smirks. “You sure you aren’t still trying to get back at me?”
Relief floods through me. Cracking jokes is a good sign. Maybe even a step toward actually becoming friends. And if all I can have from Wesley is his friendship, I guess I’ll have to accept that. It will have to be enough.
“I’m done with trying to get back at you,” I say. “I promise.”
He nods. “Then I think we can handle working together,” he says. “Although, I must admit, it was nice not to have to worry about being thrown in the stocks.”
I smile.
Behind me, I hear Gran stir. I turn around. She’s awake and she’s watching us, a delighted expression on her face. For a moment, I think she recognizes us, but then the light goes out of her eyes again.