Delaney James seemed to have it all-a Manhattan townhouse, a thriving career as a fashion journalist, and a handsome, high-powered husband, but when he announces he's leaving her, Delaney's picture-perfect life unravels. Heartbroken and in need of a...
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While Greyson was in Raleigh, I spent my time with Mr. McKinnie. I try to avoid thinking about it, but I don't know how much longer we'll have him, and I don't want to look back on these days and wish I'd spent them differently.
I get through my diner shifts during the day, record some tutorials for social media when I get home, and upload my weekly blog post to the website Adelaide helped me create, and then I spend the rest of the night at the McKinnie's. After some research, I put the cooking classes I took after I got married to good use and make nutrient-filled meals for them each night. Pineapple Green Smoothies that I found in a Starve Cancer Cookbook for his breakfasts. Lentil soup, so he gets the fiber and vitamins he needs. Salmon for the Omegas. Homemade chicken noodle soup for the days he feels nauseous and made from scratch bone broth for extra protein.
Mrs. McKinnie and I are pretty strict with his diet, but when he asks for his favorite meal – fried catfish, macaroni and cheese, and homemade hush puppies – Greyson's mother and I find that we can't say no, but I tell him if he wants a cheat meal, he's going to have to help us in the kitchen, and my heart grows three sizes, spreading a welcoming warmth throughout my entire body, when the three of us make the entire meal together.
It's moments like these that make me so happy I decided not to go back to New York after that first week and stay in South Grove with the people I love most.
Every night after dinner, I'd pour Mr. McKinnie and I a glass of sweet tea and head out to the front porch. I told him Greyson will be mad if he finds out he's not drinking the green tea he bought him, to which he responded, "I'm a dying man, Delaney. I'm allowed to drink whatever I want." His words crushed me. I could practically feel my heart shatter into a million pieces – like a fragile, hand-blown, glass Christmas ornament that had been carelessly dropped on the floor. It was the first time I'd heard him acknowledge his fate. The first time I believe it to be true.
Mr. McKinnie will be gone soon, and nothing is going to change that.
We do Sudoku puzzles and play checkers to keep his mind from wandering, and he tries to teach me chess, which he fails at miserably. I simply don't understand the patterns, or the concepts, or the strategies a person needs to know in order to play the game. He suggests Scrabble so I can work on my vocabulary for all the articles I've been posting on my blog.
"You've read them?" I ask, my eyes wide with curiosity, brow wrinkled in suspicion. A lifestyle blog isn't something I'd expect a sixty-two-year-old man to be interested in.
"Of course, I have. How else am I going to learn how to style a little black dress four different ways?"
A laugh blows past my lips. "Now I know you're lying. That's something I talked about on social media, not my blog. And I know you don't have social media."
"I may have peeked over Greyson's shoulder in curiosity when I heard your voice coming from his phone. I don't know anything about social media, but he said you're a household name. Like an Ashbourne, or whatever that Godforsaken family's name is. You know, the one that only became famous because the one daughter made a sex tape that got "accidently" leaked and now they have a reality show." He rolls his eyes and waves his hands in the air disinterestedly. "You feel like you're becoming successful with all that?"
