Five hours later, we lay sprawled on our new couch in our new apartment, still surrounded by unpacked boxes. We’d eaten our takeout dinner at Gran’s new cottage and then made her promise repeatedly that she wouldn’t try to unpack anything remotely heavy without us there. We’d set up her bed, put the boxes of essential items in spots where she wouldn’t have to bend or lift to get at the contents, and then dragged our sorry carcasses home.
It said a lot about my level of exhaustion that I didn’t turn down the vodka shot that Parker handed me. “To success in starting over at life,” she offered, clinking her glass against mine.
“I’ll drink to that,” I replied tiredly, before bolting the shot.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish