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“Al, there’s been an emergency.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I wipe my hands on my apron. I’ll just start this again tomorrow. I can always start again. Right now, Gram needs me.
My heart skips a beat, blood roaring in my ears. “Gram, what is it? Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
With my phone in one hand, I turn off the light switches, grab my keys and bag from the counter, and lock the studio. Fortunately, my car is parked in front so I don’t have to run far.
“Gram, are you hurt? Did you call 911? Do you need me to call 911?”
“No. Just come home. Don’t run the red lights.”
“Are you sure? What’s going on? How?—”
“Don’t forget to bring me the lemon meringue pie from the bakery beside your studio.”
I stop in my tracks, already standing at the driver’s side. “Gram, what do you?—”
“Just come.”
Gram drops the call, and I’m left staring at my phone. I don’t know what to feel right now, and I can’t seem to function properly. Should I drive to her place, call Tristan, or buy that damn pie? My ability to think under pressure has always been nil. And whenever I’m too anxious or panicky, Tristan is the one I run to first.
But…
If Gram’s seriously hurt, she won’t think about eating pie, will she?
Oh God. What do I do? Tristan’s at work. I remember him telling me we’ll go on a date tomorrow. Maybe he’s in surgery.
Crap. I should leave. But the pie. Goddammit.
Five minutes later, I’m driving to Gram’s home, the pie sitting safely on the passenger seat. I try to call Tristan, but his phone’s unavailable, so maybe he’s still in the operating room.
No matter how desperately I want to run the red lights, I don’t. Gritting my teeth and white-knuckling the steering wheel, I try to remember all the calming techniques I learned in a two-week meditation course, but it’s no use.
For some reason, the universe has decided to test my patience. All the slow, stupid drivers are out in full force, and it takes me half an hour instead of the usual fifteen minutes.
I pull into the driveway and leave everything inside the car, including my phone, only making sure I lock the doors before sprinting towards the house. Halfway to the front door, I remember the pie and curse while I grab it.
My heart pounds, my brain buzzing, when I see the dim lights. Gram hates dim lights and says she’s gonna end up tripping and breaking her neck. Oh God. I hope that’s not it.
I fling the door wide open and cringe when the sound of it slamming against the wall is too loud. The house feels different, but I don’t have time to linger on that fact.
The living room is empty, and so are the kitchen and dining area. Dropping the box on the marble countertop, I run upstairs, scanning each room. She’s not anywhere.
My world tilts, and I brace myself against the balustrade, feeling the smooth hardwood under my fingertips.
Horror dawns on my face when I realize she may be in the back garden, but it’s already night. Still, I need to check out everything before I call the cops.
I stand before the kitchen counter and glance out the window, expecting to see the usual darkness. Instead, I notice something I haven’t before—a soft, twinkling glow from string lights.
I rush toward the back, expecting the worst and unsure of what I will find. Instead of Gram, however, it’s Tristan.
My heart gives an erratic beat.
He’s in a three-piece suit and holding a bouquet in one hand. He stands by the pergola, a table set for two behind him.
“Tristan?”
