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by Angie M. Brashears

  “Absolutely. When will the press hear about this?” In other words, how much time do I have before I’ve got to clean the fish bowl?

  “Well. Lemme see. The official tax exempt status won’t be filed with the courts for thirty days, so we’ve got time.”

  “Put it to good use.” I hang up and stretch and see a note taped to the futon.

  I’ve got some things to do. I see you’re busy, too. I’ll see you back later, maybe tonight.

  PS You still owe me a secret!

  Rainbows, Chloe

  The PS in the wrong spot makes me laugh.

  I’m not sure whether to log off. Is it weird if I just keep her empty futon on my screen? What if I minimize it? I do and leave it open while I run system checks on the site. I click on and am amazed by the amount of traffic since the interview. My 4,000—give or take—members just exploded to 200,000. Shit. We’re gonna need bigger servers.

  I get James, head of IT, on the line and clear every one of his demands. Yes, to more manpower, servers, overtime, the works. “Whatever you need. I’m just surprised you’ve kept it up and running this long.”

  “It wasn’t easy, boss. I haven’t slept in 48 hours.”

  I send the clearance in a text, tell him to route all problems to Clyde, the second-in-command. We discuss a few other issues, and when we’re done, I send him for a well-earned nap.

  I hear Chloe mumbling in the background and feel like a total predator. I click the X and get back to work.

  Gram calls about an hour later. She wants to know how it’s going with Chloe without actually asking. She already knows—without having to rub it in—that her hints worked.

  “Everything’s going great, Gram. It’s like if Mom would’ve remembered me that last week and we’d been able to really talk. That’s how it feels when I talk to Chloe.

  “I don’t know, it’s weird, but I feel like I’m getting closure, if that’s even possible. I don’t know if it’s helping Chloe to know me better or not, but it’s sure helping me to get to know myself.”

  “Glad I could get you two together.” I hear hope in her voice and jump to shut it down.

  “Gram, we’re not together. Just friends.”

  Flustered, she says, “Well, that’s what I meant.”

  “Okay, Gram, whatever you say,” I laugh as she tries to defend her dreams of a houseful of grandbabies.

  “Okay, enjoy your time off! We’ll take care of all the private messages while you’re gone. Don’t worry about us chickens!”

  As I start my laps, I wonder about her. What’s Chloe doing?

  Chloe

  My own story bummed me out. I hate to think of Lola like that. Alone, just going through the motions, never truly feeling the thrills and chills of life. What will she do without me? It devastates me. I know I need to make a phone call, and it’s going to be the hardest one I have to make.

  I grab my phone and see I’ve got some texts. Anything to delay the inevitable. Before I start in on them, I send a quick text to Lola.

  Need to talk. Can you come by? It’s important. Me

  I send hugs and rainbows to all of my family, letting them know I’ve seen their words of love and I appreciate them all. Seems Mom was busy letting the aunts and uncles in on my cancer. Hope she didn’t start a GoFundMe page while she was at it.

  I text my mom back, letting her know I’m still here.

  I send Em, my chemo buddy, a sexy holy shit! picture, stolen from Pornscrub. A naked lawyer bending over a judge. Priceless.

  Roxy sent a blanket text. The pregnancy’s fine, she’s just climbing the walls. Her doctor put her on bedrest till her fake contractions settle down.

  Hmmm. I didn’t know there was even such a thing as fake contractions.

  My stomach drops when I see Lola’s return text.

  Be there in twenty. Picking up Chinese.

  Shittt! I’ve got twenty minutes! I turn the computer screen around, hoping Mason’s still there. It’s only been an hour.

  But he’s gone.

  I do the only thing I can. Start searching for my pot pipe.

  She lets herself in while I’m in the bathroom trying to find a way to look healthier.

  Here goes.

  Lola

  When she comes out of the bathroom, she looks like death warmed over. “A dead body actually looks better than you do right now.”

  She pouts. “I’ve been sick.”

  Whatever. If that’s what she wants to call it, I’m not gonna stop her. This place reeks of pot, there are fucking syringes on the counter, but she’s sick. Sure.

  I hate the clipped way I sound. “I’m not here to judge. Just so you know, I’m here to help when you’re ready to help yourself.”

  “Wait. What? Do you think I’m on drugs?”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t that why you made me rush over here?”

  She giggles and smokes, high as usual.

  Rolling my eyes, I try to find one dish in her house that isn’t either A, gross or B, full of paint. I settle on a pan and a really big bowl and start filling them with rice and orange chicken. I hand her the pan—it’s her house, she should get the good plate.

  “What’s this?” I ask, pulling the note off the cushion before sitting down.

  “It’s a note for my…friend.” The slight hesitation in her voice makes me think drug dealer.

  But I’m not here to judge. Well, maybe a little. “Is your ‘friend’ here now?”

  She peers at me like I’m the one on drugs.

  At least she’s eating. That’s a good sign. “Good, right?”

  She nods as she eats. I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about the food, doesn’t want to talk about anything really, but it looks like she’s been crying.

  I finish before her and bring my plate and all the other dishes into the kitchen. I throw out all the trash around the futon, try to clear at least a tiny path while she just pushes food around in her pan, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  I check my watch and kneel in front of her. “I’m not here to push you. Whatever it is, I’m here for you. It’s not anything we can’t work out.” I squeeze her leg as I watch a tear fall down her cheek. “I love you, Chlo-bug, but if you’re not ready to talk, you’re not ready. Do you want me to come back after work?”

  She shakes her head and cries in her rice.

  “We’ll see each other Friday, right?”

  She nods.

  I hug her. “We can talk then. Call me if you need me. I’ll keep my phone on.” I lift her chin so she sees my smile. “Besides, I’m just about cried out. Matt mourning may end early this year.”

  I wink and kiss her cheek, before I feel her skinny arms around my neck, pulling me into one of her classic, messy hugs.

  Chloe

  “I had her in my clutches and I couldn’t do it! She was right there and I couldn’t speak. I froze.”

  He nods, like this is normal behavior, before he shrugs. “You couldn’t do it. It happens.”

  I nod. “I’m glad you get me. I’m not sure if I even get me.” I flop back on the futon. “Why didn’t I just spit it out? Ugh. It’s driving me crazy thinking about it.” I turn to the monitor.

  “She thinks I’m on drugs. Like, her-o-in.”

  His eyebrows rise. Then I remember he doesn’t know me that well. “Mason, I’m not on drugs. Got that? Well, scratch that. I’m not on that drug.”

  He blows out a relieved breath. “How did she act when you wouldn’t confess?”

  I think about it. “She was awfully accommodating. It feels like she read a book or two on addicts.” I laugh. It’s so Lola. “She gave me the I’m here when you’re ready to help yourself speech.”

  He laughs with me. “Oh, you are going to be in for it.”

  I start to get worried. I’m thinking of every kind of scenario up till the worst: her never speaking to me again when she hears the real reason that I look like this.

  “Ugh, Mason, I can’t think about this anymore. Talk a
bout something else.” Then I remember. “You owe me a secret, moneybags. Pay up.”

  Mason

  “Did you forget your made-up secret, Mason?” She’s coy as she asks.

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking, give me a minute.” I can’t get comfortable. I answered Chloe on the pool deck, and it’s getting chilly out here. But I don’t want to tell her that and have her start in on the Dahling shit again.

  I close all my other windows on the screen as I head into the house. “One sec,” I tell her and set her down on the coffee table. “I’m hooking you up to the big screen,” I yell as I search for the right clicker. Once I get it hooked up, I run to my room and grab a sweatshirt and my throw blanket. I switch on the big screen and lounge on the couch, giving the wall-sized Chloe a big grin.

  She primps, “Am I live?” And I laugh. Big Chloe’s got my full attention.

  I’ve got it. “Never have I ever been happier than when I heard it was my mom that got the cancer, and not my Gram.” I suck in a breath. As does Chloe when she works out the riddle. “I know, I know. I’m a horrible son. But life with Mom was a whole lot of half her attention. Her mind was always elsewhere: the company, the cancer, my dad. What little attention there was left was… like rainbow sprinkles on a cupcake.” I look in her eyes. “I got the ones that were left on the plate after the cupcake is all gone.”

  Her look of concern is the last thing I need.

  “Compare that to my Gram, who thinks the moon sets for this guy.” I grin and point my two thumbs at my chest.

  I hold up scales to prove the point. Gram’s scale high in the air.

  Before sitting back and putting my feet on the table, I say, “Everybody loved me, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to hear Prince Mason coming out of your mouth anytime soon.”

  She giggles. “That’s what Ronny called you.”

  “I know. He wasn’t the only one either.”

  I pause to think about what I want to say here. “It’s just that Gram loved me a little more, you know?”

  She thinks about it and nods. “I know, it’s brutal, but it’s honest. The very last thing I want to do is waste the little time you have left.”

  She smiles. “Thanks, Mason.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I sit back and try to explain it so she’ll understand it. “So I want to tell you the story of Gram.” I make a show of checking my watch. “Unless you have more pressing matters to attend to.” I make a point of looking at her curled under a blanket, her eyes the only thing visible.

  “I’m free,” she mumbles.

  “You know my Gram was the most important person in my life till I met you. I’d like you two to meet. The two most important women in my life.” I don’t realize what I’m saying until it’s out. I look up and Chloe’s already heading for the hills.

  She’s sitting ramrod straight, blanket forgotten. “Err, aw, Mason.” She hems and haws, and I let her. “Um, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression here, buddy, ole pal of mine.”

  And that’s it, I bust up. She’s giving me the talk. Oh, Chloe.

  “Never have I ever…been permanently posted in the friend zone.” The horrified look in her eyes kills me. Too fun. “Got it, Chloe. No, no, no. It’s all right. I understand. Too good looking. Over-the-top charming. Super-fast swimmer. Brainiac businessman, two Chloe, I run two businesses. No, I understand really.”

  She starts laughing. “I’m sorry, Mase!”

  “All I gotta say is wow.” She’s too much.

  I’m smiling as she wipes fake sweat from her brow. “Me too. Wow! I thought we were meeting parents already. Like you already had the ring picked out and everything. Worried the next knock on my door would be a preacher, here to marry our computer screens! Yeah, wow.”

  Now that that elephant’s out in the open, she snuggles down onto the lumpy futon, tucking the covers in all around herself.

  Then she tucks her chin under the blanket, leaving only her Irish-smiling eyes visible. “All right, Mase, I’m ready to listen. I can’t wait.” After all that, she pops back up. “Oh wait, Mase. I’ve gotta pee.” She gets up and her limps bad, eyes apologetic, and bumps the laptop, “Sorry, Mase,” she mumbles as she heads off screen.

  “Take a Perc for me!” I yell, hoping she’s got good pain pills in at least one of her baggies.

  While she’s peeing, and hopefully smoking up or shooting up, whatever she needs to do to lose the shadow of pain I see in her eyes, I think about what’s going on here. This feels like I’ve lost my friggin’ mind. What if she turns out to be some stalker, her walls—which I can’t see—plastered with glossy 8 x 10s of me, my eyes gouged out? Or what if this is all a big ruse?

  I really look around her apartment. It’s shabby, but buried underneath a lot of yard sale finds are some hidden gems. Like the Coach bag, oversized, stuffed with a lot of expensive art supplies. The blanket she snuggles under on that most likely flea-infested futon looks like cashmere. The ginormous heart diamond earrings that she’s probably forgotten she has in. I doubt she took them out for her shower. No, it’s not a money thing. Ronny’s family is definitely upper middle class.

  Who cares, dumbass? If that’s the case, I’ll empty my pockets and take her to the bank myself.

  But it’s my first time. I mean, meeting with one of the F#ck It List clients in any way. Not something I would’ve condoned even a week ago. I wasn’t kidding when I quoted that less than 20% actually go through with the whole charade. Because no one’s that committed. It sounds good on paper, looks good in a text, but when it comes right down to putting on your shoes and actually going somewhere, that’s when the enthusiasm flags. Most people aren’t that committed.

  Except for us.

  She comes back into view, her eyes bleary. She taps the computer screen with her glass-blown rainbow pipe.

  I laugh, but have to refuse the offer. “I’m good, Chloe. Really. Just finished off some crack while you were tinkling.” She giggles, lights the pipe, and leans back. “I’m just pre-gaming for your story.” She winds the pipe. “Please, get on with it. You’re better then Redbox, by the way,” she says in her pot smoking voice, which, when I first heard it, I thought she was choking. Now I’m used to it.

  “Oh, am I really?” I ask.

  “Much better, Dahling.” Once she’s snuggled back in, I start again.

  “Where do I start with Gram? Okay, she is old school. She doesn’t know what a Kardashian is. If you asked, she might respond with ‘Some kind of Brazilian nut?’ And she’d be half right. She actually still sends paper cards out for everything. Never an emoji, a Facebook post, or a tweet. A birthday wish has gotta be something tangible, that you can feel, hold. At least, that’s what she says.”

  I look into Chloe’s eyes and detect a smile. She’s picturing my Gram. I like that.

  “To this day, whenever I see Gram, I bend over like this so she doesn’t have to get up on her tiptoes to kiss my forehead. She’s got arthritis, and it’s getting to be more of a problem than she’d care to admit. She’s had to cut down on a lot of her activities at the distillery. Her accountant Jen runs the day to day now. She devotes most of her time to the F#ck It pets.”

  Chloe raises her eyebrows. Stunned, she asks, “Never have I ever’s have included a live animal?”

  “Yep, and Gram ends up with them. Now, before you think I’ve got her locked up in a trailer full of cats, poring over F#ck It List requests, think again. I spent half a million dollars on a place for her and as many pets as she could ever possibly want. I’ll show you one day.” She nods, and I feel relieved.

  I didn’t even dare to hope that Chloe and I would ever meet.

  “She can leave her kiss stamp on my forehead anytime. I welcome it. When my mom was in the hospital.” I look into her eyes, determined to get this right. “For the last time, I wouldn’t have made it, watching my mother wither, losing all of her petals, without Gram.

  “Fun fact, Chloe.” She uncovers her f
ace and stares, showing me she knows this is important. “Gram is a very important person in my life. It’s a short list. It’s been just Gram forever, and…now you.”

  “Aww.” She beams.

  I continue. “She’d show up out of nowhere dragging her red wagon loaded down with homemade goodies. Never wanting a production made about it, she’d either just drop off food or hang around in the background. She doesn’t like a fuss to be made over her, ever.”

  I can tell Chloe’s trying to puzzle something out. “Who was the food for, you? I know you eat a lot, but a wagonful?” She cocks her head.

  “The nurses, staff, doctors, everyone who looked after my mother. Even the volunteer that dropped off menus in the morning got a pie. I didn’t know it then, but my Gram cooks when she’s overwhelmed with sadness. Some people cry.” I raise my hand and nod. “I am a pussy.”

  She nods and raises her hand high. “Me too.”

  “Well, Gram bakes when she’s down. And with my mom in the state she was in.” I shake my head and try to clear my throat. It’s not cooperating. My saliva feels too thick. “Let’s just say, Gram could’ve kept a whole army fed that summer. I never knew when to expect her either. She’d just show up when I needed her most. Back then, no, even before that.

  “Even when I was a little boy, I thought she had some kind of special built-in Mason mood ring. She always seemed to pop up right when I needed a home-cooked meal and a kiss.

  “In she’d stroll, pulling her little red wagon with lips to match. I’d bow, she’d plant the customary kiss on my head, sometimes with a squeeze of my arm, but more times than not, she’d hand me a tin-covered plate. ‘This one here’s for you, Mase.’

  “She’d take her scarf off—she drives a convertible Mustang.” I smile and Chloe snuggles in, pulling her legs up to her chest. “Are you in pain?” I ask, concerned.

  “This is the first time, in I don’t know how long, that I’m not. Feels good to stretch. Get back to Gram, please.”