Summer hung up the phone and sat there on her couch in the falling dark, hands shaking, too stunned to cry yet. ‘Dead … ’ echoed in her mind, the only thing she could think. Slowly, the awful ache of it penetrated enough to allow other thoughts in. “Victor,” she whispered half-consciously, “where are you? I want you.”
On a whim Victor had decided to drop by on his friend Summer. It had been an interesting week for him to say the least. Some of it good, some of it not so much. He pulled into her driveway, parked his car then got out, a bottle of wine in his hand. Victor jumped the steps then knocked on the door, hoping she was home.
The knock on the door startled her so badly she actually shrieked a little, jumping up from the couch. Taking a deep breath, she called, “It’s open,” and pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow down. She clicked on a lamp, then, and wiped at the tearmarks on her face, trying to think who would be visiting.
Alarmed at her shriek, Victor dashed in through the door and surveyed her. He could hear Summer’s heart beating fast and he took in her tear stained cheeks and he dropped the bottle on the couch. Victor rushed to her and pulled her to him for a hug. “What’s wrong love?”
He held her and rocked with her gently. “What’s wrong love?”
Summer had forgotten Victor’s speed, but the sudden warmth of his hold was more than welcome. She curled her hands into his coat sleeves, once again fighting the tears that had nearly run dry before he arrived. It took a long minute before she could whisper, “My grandfather — my last living grandparent — he died just a few hours ago.”