Worst Wingman Ever

by Abby Jimenez

“You know where you need to go?” Jillian said. “Where?” I asked, checking Grandma’s ankles. She had some edema. This was new. “Home Depot,” Jillian said. “For?” “To wander the aisles, looking confused.” “Why would I—” I gave her a look. “I am not man-shopping at Home Depot.” “She’s right, Holly. There’s lots of good men at hardware stores,” Grandma said. “Stay away from the garden and paint sections,” Jillian said. “The men over there are gay or married. Stay out of the lumber section too. Real carpenters have timber delivered on-site; you won’t find anyone in the lumber section who knows what to do with their wood.”

“You are unbelievable,” I said, rolling fresh socks on Grandma’s feet. I glanced up at my sister. “What else?” Her eyes sparkled. “The tile aisle is where it’s at. Those guys are ripped and they make good money. Also, they’re good on their hands and knees.” Grandma was snickering. “Plumbing and electrical fitting is another good one. They’re trade guys. Professionals. But the place to go, the pot of gold, the fishing hole of the hardware world”—she paused dramatically—“is the tool aisle.” We were all watching her now, captivated. “You want the guys buying the red tools,” she said, making eye contact with each of us. “Red tools are a green flag.” “Why red?” Mom asked, drying a bowl with a rag. “Those are the expensive, professional ones.” She propped her foot on the edge of Grandma’s bed and did a hamstring stretch. “You could make an exception for a guy with yellow tools if he’s cute enough. But never green. Ever.” “No green,” I said, smacking her foot off the comforter. “Got it.” Mom was shaking her head. “Where did you learn all this?” “I drink iced coffee and I know things.”

“Holly, you can’t let what Jeb did get to you. The cheating says so much more about him than you. And what kind of a man steals a neti pot?” “One that should have his dick in a guillotine,” Jillian said. “A what?” Lucy asked. “A DICK GUILLOTINE,” my sister repeated. “A tiny one.” Mom laughed before turning back to the kitchen. “Lucy, we’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

“I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you.” “Okay. Say whatever you need to say. It stays with me.” “I don’t care who you tell,” she said. “Anyone who cared is long dead. I’ll be gone before they can arrest me, and Lucy will never confess.” I wrinkled my forehead. “Confess—” “I killed him.” I jerked to stare at her. “What?” “I did,” she said matter-of-factly. “Chip was a mean drunk. He liked to hit me. One day he came at me, and I just knew that was it. I wasn’t getting out alive. I clocked him on the side of the head with a cast-iron frying pan.” I blinked at her. “Lucy and I put him in the back of my station wagon. Drove to the river, rolled him into the water. I called the sheriff the next day and told him my husband went drinking and never came home. They found him a few weeks later. Called it an accident. They thought he probably fell off a bridge or something.” I was in shock. “Grandma . . . ,” I breathed. “Feels good to tell someone,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Oh, it’s not on my chest. I’d do it all over again. He’d have killed me. No, the whole point in me telling you this story is to remind you that we need to manifest our own destiny. I never accepted less than what I deserved ever again. Never ignored a red flag or excused bad behavior. I asked for what I wanted, and I protected those I loved, and I demanded the things I needed, and I had a beautiful life. Got seventy more years of living because I decided not to lay down and die that day when some weak man who deserved a dick guillotine made the choice to hurt me.” She held my gaze for a long, meaningful moment. “Take responsibility for your own unhappiness, Holly. If you don’t love your life, change it.”

It was like the words took all that she had left. She lay back against her pillow and closed her eyes. Then she went eerily still. My heart started to pound. “Grandma?” I shook her gently. “Grandma, wake up,” I said, panicking. “Please. I can’t have your last words contain the phrase ‘dick guillotine.’” She chuckled weakly to herself, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re gonna have so many people waiting for you in heaven one day, beautiful girl,” she said quietly. “I’ll be the first one in line.” Tears pricked my eyes. “I love you,” I whispered. She didn’t whisper it back. She’d said all she ever would. She passed the next morning surrounded by everyone she loved.

“Take responsibility for your own unhappiness. If you don’t love your life, change it.”

He glanced up and froze. Then I froze too. He looked familiar. Where did I know him from? “I . . . I know you,” he said. “I think I know you too.”

He looked toward the sink and stared. “Where’d you get that bobblehead?” He looked back at me. “It was a gift.” Silence. “Are you a nurse?” he asked. “Yeah. I’m a hospice nurse.” He paused. “Do you drive a white Honda?” “Yes . . .” Something moved across his face. “I gave you that.” I blinked at him. “What?” “I also filled your tire with air and accidentally put a Valentine’s Day card on your windshield.” I was speechless. “That was you?” I breathed. “That was me. John. Worst wingman guy . . . You’re H?” “Holly,” I said, my heart pounding. We held each other’s gaze. The same way we did that day in the courtyard. Only today I was in such a different place I didn’t need to look away. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was too good to be true. My guardian angel. He licked his lips. “I don’t do this. I have really strict rules about hitting on tenants, and feel free to tell me to go to hell. But do you want to go out sometime? Just, you know, for coffee? Or dinner? I could take you to Home Depot. We both need to go; I could probably help you find whatever you’re looking for there.” I had to laugh. “Yes,” I said. “You can definitely take me out. And I think what I’m looking for is already here.”