As I finish reading Grams’s detailed entry describing her admission to the concentration camp, I hear her breaths turn into soft snores. Reluctant to leave the book behind, I slip it into my shoulder bag and take the opportunity to find a bathroom and a place to grab food. I don't make it very far down the hallway before I run into Dr. Beck as he’s studying a patient’s chart. “Emma,” he greets me. His voice is deeper than I remember from earlier, but still just as professional.

“Dr. Beck,” I respond.

He seems a bit flustered as a paper falls from a folder pinched under his arm. We both lean forward to retrieve the fallen paper, but he reaches it first. While correcting his stance and replacing the paper, a soft sigh hums in his throat. “You can call me Jackson,” he says.

“Jackson,” I correct myself. “I’m sorry about my grandmother.” He moves the clipboard beneath his arm where the folder is and clasps his hands together in front of his waist.

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“She shouldn't have been so pushy and intrusive,” I tell him.

A smile tugs at the right corner of his lips and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “This may be hard to believe, but I have a grandmother just like her. In fact, she does just about anything in the world to embarrass me.”

With the feeling of awkwardness from our not-so-casual conversation, I reposition my bag over my shoulder. “Well, I guess today is my day to take one for the team,” I say, feeling a warm blush color my cheeks what must be a deep shade of pink.

“Take one for the team?” he questions. “Does that mean you'd rather not go out tonight? I promise I won’t be offended if you don’t want to go out with me.”

I didn't intend to sound like I was complaining. “No, of course not,” I say as I place my hand over my big mouth. “That's not what I meant.”

“Good.” A grin stretches across his face, pinching against the bottom of his dark lashes. With that, Jackson gently taps the back of his clipboard against my arm and walks off. “See you tonight, Emma.”

My hand is still on my face as I continue walking down the hall. I have a boyfriend. I can't just go out on a date with some guy because he’s a good-looking doctor and I'm being guilted by Grams. It’s been six years of this. No one in my family has liked Mike from the minute they met him. In my defense, I don’t think he was always the person he is now, but maybe I just didn't see it then. I don’t know.

After grabbing a couple of snacks from the gift shop, I head outside to the courtyard, finding a picnic bench under a low hanging tree. Let's hope there’s a wifi connection out here. I pull my laptop out of my bag, open it up, and place it down on the table. It’s only a matter of seconds before dozens of emails pop up, following a lead weight falling to the pit of my stomach.

I can only see the subject lines, but I swear each one says there’s some kind of problem I have to fix. My career has always come first, but I can hardly think straight today.

With a deep breath of the fresh autumn air, I open the first email and begin the succession of responses, knowing I'll most likely be doing the actual updates on their projects at midnight tonight.

“I guess I can be thankful that you made it easy for me to find you today.” Mike walks around from the other side of the tree and unwelcomingly sits down across from me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“I came to see how Grams is doing.”

“Mike, why are you saying that—calling her that? When have you ever cared about Grams? When’s the last time you came with me to visit her?” I let out a groan as I run my fingers through my hair. “I guess what I’m truly interested in is your reason for trying to impress me all of the sudden.”

He weaves his fingers together and rests them on the table, bowing his head as if out of shame, which I doubt to be the case. “I really do want to be with you,” he says, calmly.

“Answer me this, Mike. Did you or didn’t you cheat on me? That could mean anything from kissing to whatever else. Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth.” I’m not sure what he’ll say, but I already know the truth. He has cheated…many times.

I pull my laptop screen down and fold my arms over the top of it, looking past him, rather than at his eyes. Since he didn't immediately tell me he wouldn't do such a thing, I’m hopeful for the truth. It would be a change from his typical lies when I ask him this question. You don't just come home smelling like perfume because you were in an elevator with someone, or because they were helping you with a project for two hours. The stories have been quite imaginative, that's for sure.

After a long minute, Mike lifts his head and does as I asked. He looks me directly in the eyes and begins talking, “I slept with someone,” he says with a minimal amount of shame.

A part of me feels relief for knowing I'm not crazy, and for the confirmation that my gut is always true to me. “So, what, she wasn't as good in bed as I am? Is that why you love me so much right now?” It's harsh, but I know Mike well enough to assume his reason.

“Emma,” he says with a flustered sigh as if I'm the one being unreasonable. “I don't have the desire to do that again, I swear to you. I was thinking about popping the question and all that jazz. Then I realized how scary forever sounded, and I just got this bug in my head. As soon as it was over, I realized how stupid I was for thinking I needed something more.”

The only emotion stirring inside of me at the moment is happiness, and I'm not sure why. “Do you know how long I've waited to hear you say that?” I ask him.

“Say which part?”

“That you were thinking about popping the question.” I can’t stop the cyclical laughter from oozing out of me. “I'm thirty-one, and we've been together for six years. I've been sitting around waiting for you to mature into the type of man who wants to settle down, all the while, being afraid of moving on from you because I've already missed out on my prime years. I feared starting over and hoping to find someone who would want to be with me and eventually settle down, but in the last five minutes, you've made me realize how much better my odds are of starting over versus what my life would be like if I were to stay with you.”

He looks at me with confusion. Clearly, I'm not making sense to him, but how could he think I'd be okay with the fact that he decided to test the boundaries by sleeping with another woman? Maybe I held onto this relationship too long, but I'm not that weak. “So, what are you saying?” he asks, nervously.

Is he seriously that dumb? I suppose I don’t need to ask him that part. “I'm saying we’re done. I waited long enough for you to love me the way I forced myself to love you, and it’s never going to happen.”

He huffs a sarcastic chuckle. “I knew you wouldn't understand. How could I be with someone who has no acceptance or the capability of forgiveness? Maybe I was wrong, but the coldness in your heart is eventually going to catch up to you. I'm surprised you didn't remind me of your favorite saying—you know, how people don't change and blah blah blah.”

I lift my laptop from the table and slide it back into my bag. “If you need someone to blame, go ahead and tell me this is my fault. Maybe I'm cold. Maybe I wholeheartedly believe people can’t change who they are, yet I still waited for you to become a better person. That makes me the stupid one.”

“You can say that again,” he says. Mike always needs to have the last word, and I’ve let him have it through every fight we’ve endured, never caring what words lingered as I walked away.

I walk away, finally feeling free of the restraints that were holding me back—the ones I couldn't manage to untangle myself from before today. “I didn't just cheat on you once,” he shouts. “It was so many times that I lost count.” His fit of laughter floats through the air, making him sound like a lunatic.

Tears prick my eyes after his last comment, which makes me angry because I don’t want his words or actions to hurt me anymore. Plus, what right do I have to pretend I know what pain feels like after reading Grams’s diary entries? I'm lucky to have a choice—to be able to walk away.

As I’m heading back toward the hospital entrance after an unsuccessful attempt to catch up on my emails, I hear the engine of Mike's truck rev, followed by the sound of tires squealing against the pavement.

“How could I have been so stupid? Six years. For what?”

“It happens to the best of us,” a familiar voice pipes up behind. Jackson pulls my attention away from the anger and rage I’m fighting against. “I wasn't eavesdropping.”

I don't know how much Jackson heard between Mike and me, but I hope he only heard me talking to myself. “It’s okay,” I tell him.

“See this?” he says, pointing to his ring finger. There's an indent and band of lighter colored flesh compared to the rest of his finger.

I study it for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm looking at, but then it dawns on me that it's his ring finger. “Did you lose your ring?”

He laughs with obvious discomfort. “Definitely didn’t lose it.”

“Oh?” I question, waiting for a more detailed explanation.

“I was married for eight years, I’ve been divorced for eleven months, and this stupid spot won't fill in. She's still torturing me.”

“Geez, I didn't realize that could happen,” I tell him. Seriously, I didn't know skin could shrink like that.

“It can, it did, and she’d probably love to know.”

“I guess I can assume you didn’t have the best marriage?” Now that I’m evidently going on a date with this man tonight, I suppose I should know a little more about him than just his name.

“That’s putting it mildly, but no, I didn't have a great marriage.”

I fidget with the straps of my bag, keeping them upright on my shoulder. “So, what happened?” Maybe she cheated on him too. That would just make for a cute coincidence, wouldn't it?

“She was selfish, lazy, mean, and bored. She didn't like the fact that I had to work long hours, but she would continuously complain that we never had enough money. She told me she was too tired to make meals but insisted on being a housewife, and to add insult to injury, she stayed up most nights texting and talking to her friends while I sat beside her, waiting for a moment of her attention after working a twelve-hour shift. If I tried to get near her, she’d push me away. I lost track of how many times she asked me to sleep in the guest room.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s terrible,” I tell him. “I may have the perfect match for her if she's still single.” I laugh because I suspect she's going to have a hard time finding a man that's going to please her if Jackson wasn't good enough. On the other hand, he could just be saying all of this. I certainly don't know him very well, considering we just met, but it sort of sounds like my life with Mike, minus the marriage. “She’ll eventually realize what she had. I'm not sure what man would cave to those requirements and demands.”

We reach the side doors of the hospital and Jackson opens the door, holding it out so I can walk in. “Surprisingly enough, she's already remarried, which is fine by me. I wished the guy good luck when we awkwardly ran into each other in Target a couple months ago.”

“Wow. I guess it's a good thing you were smart enough to get out when you did,” I tell him.

Jackson scuffles his shoe against the thin carpet while peering down to his feet as he inhales loudly before spilling out, “Yes, except she’s the one who left me. I'm not a quitter, so I kept making excuses to myself and tried to make it work.”

I'm not sure what to say in response, but I suppose it’s good I finally grew the courage to do what I was afraid I’d never be able to do. I'm sure Mike isn't through with me yet, though. I imagine I'll have dozens of texts and a bunch of missed calls on my phone tomorrow after I sleep at Mom's again tonight, but I can't go back to him this time. I don't want to have to tell someone someday that my ex left me because I wasn't strong enough to leave him.

“Well, I guess we have something in common,” I tell Jackson.

A hint of a smile pokes at his left cheek. “Hey, again, I know this probably sounds like I've been eavesdropping, which I swear, I haven't been doing, but I overheard some of what you were reading to your grandmother earlier.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to imagine which part he may have heard. “Yeah, it's pretty heavy. I'm having a hard time digesting some of it. It’s why I went outside to clear my head for a few minutes, but evidently, exes always know the right time to make life just a little more sour.”

“That's for sure,” he agrees. “I can imagine it might be hard reading her words out loud like that.”

“She’s very detailed with her descriptions, and it’s hard not to envision what she went through, you know? I mean, she’s my grandmother, and it’s just so hard to comprehend her enduring that kind of abuse. On top of that, I never knew any of her concentration camp stories before now. It seems surreal.”

“She’s lived quite a life,” he says. “Thankfully, you’re saving it by going out with me tonight.” He puffs his chest out, and his face brightens with a silly grin. “It's all in a day's job—saving lives and going out with pretty granddaughters of my patients. What a way to make a living, huh?”

“How many granddaughters have you been bribed into taking out?” I ask—partially joking, maybe a little serious. I'm sure he's kidding. I can't imagine too many grandmothers use their lives as bait for their unmarried grandchildren.

“Oh, you're only the second, don't worry,” he says with an accompanied wink. “I have to get going, but if I don't mysteriously run into you again before tonight, have a great afternoon.”

“You too.” He is like a breath of fresh air, and I can’t help the curiosity I feel while watching him walk away. I want to know more about this man who seems too good to be true.

“Code Blue on floor eight. Dr. Beck, paging Dr. Beck.” My moment of light-hearted ease is gone as I hear the alert on the loudspeaker. Dr. Beck’s name and the eighth floor is immediate cause for panic since that’s the floor Grams is on, and I know what code blue means. However, I don’t know how many patients he has on the eighth floor.

I circle around for a moment, looking for the nearest elevator, then break into a run when I spot one. I desperately slap my palms against the elevator buttons until the doors open, and I do the same with the “close door” and “eighth floor” buttons on the inside. Hurry. Please. It feels like forever before the elevator reaches the eighth floor, but as soon as the doors open, I hear alarms and beeping noises blaring from different directions. I can’t help feeling terrified of the unknown, and the fear has made me forget which room number Grams is in, so I start running in what I hope is the right direction. I must have circled the entire floor before I see nurses coming and going from a room near the end. That's her room. Eight-eleven. No, no, no. Please, be okay, Grams.

Though I'm running, I feel like I’m on a treadmill, or like the hallway is growing longer by the second. I can't seem to reach her room fast enough, and my chest tightens with guilt for leaving Grams’s side. I shouldn't have been so worried about answering emails. When I finally reach her room, I see doctors and nurses working on her. It confirms that the alarm sounds are coming from her room, and her heart looks like it's flatlined according to the flashing monitor. I just pray they just took the wires off to work on her, not because they’re giving up.

Jackson looks over at me for a split second. His face is white, and his forehead is glowing with beads of sweat under the bright light. “Emma, you need to go into the waiting room. Now.”

“Is she going to be okay?” I cry out.

“Emma, please, go,” he says forcefully.

I clutch my chest as tears barrel down my cheeks. Please, God, don't take her from me. I need her. I just want to be selfish a little longer and keep her here. I slowly make my way to the small waiting room that we were in yesterday before we found out what had happened. This time I’m alone, though, and I’m debating whether I should call Mom and Annie now or wait until I find out what's happening before I scare them. I should wait a few minutes. I think this is the right thing to do. I hope it is.

I fold over as I drop down into a chair, pressing my fingertips into the sides of my head while trying to breathe in and out slowly. Please, let her be okay.

Minutes go by, and I still don't know what’s going on. I feel completely helpless and alone sitting here, so I take the leather diary out of my bag and hug it to my chest. Did I do this? Was reading the diary to her too much for her heart to handle? I don't understand why she wanted me to read this to her so badly.

Charlie. He was the initial reason for me finding the book. So far, I haven’t read anything about a Charlie, though.

With each silent passing minute, I grow more impatient, and my hands move on their own accord as I pry open Grams’s diary again. I need to feel close to her voice—her words.