“I solve things with conversations,” I point out stubbornly.
“But you’ve never been one to hide your feelings, even as a young girl. Saying what’s on your mind comes naturally to you. But we’re talking about men here. Human beings.” She chuckles, fluffing her curls in the rearview mirror. “Take Marty, for example. He’s about as emotional as they come. But do you really think your grandfather ever told me how he felt at any given time?”
Unlikely. Grandpa Roger was cantankerous as the best of them, always complaining about something, whether it was the weather (too hot or too cold, no in between), the slow cashier at the pharmacy, Vanna White’s choice of dress on any given episode of Wheel of Fortune. Mom used to say he was unhappy when he didn’t have anything to complain about. He was old-school, upholding antiquated gender norms with his stern rigidity.
“Your grandpa showed his love not through words but through actions,” Grandma Flo explains.
“I remember he always cooked for you and got you flowers from the market on his way home from work.” I smile at the memory of visiting on weekends. There was always a bouquet of fresh flowers proudly displayed in the middle of the dining room table. The note always said the same thing: TO MY DEAREST FLO, in his all-caps block handwriting.
“He did. And he didn’t love me any less. That’s part of what makes a long-term relationship work. Real life isn’t a ninety-minute movie or a three-hundred-page novel. It takes time to truly understand what someone else needs and how the other person communicates their love.” She gives my kneecap another reassuring squeeze.
I crack a smile. Why is she always right? “What would you say to him if you were me?”
She presses her finger to her lips, contemplating. “I’d tell him how much you care for him. Put it all out there.”
“I will,” I say. “I just hope he’ll believe me when I tell him how much I love him.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I still know I’m going to be okay.” It feels so good to say that out loud. I know in my heart it’s true, because every time I’m heartbroken, convinced I’ll never bounce back, I always do.
“Of course you will.” She places her wrinkled hand over mine and squeezes before adding, “My darling granddaughter deserves the best. No exceptions.”
“Thanks, Grandma.” A tiny seed blooms in my stomach, because for the first time in forever, I truly believe it.
? chapter thirty-three
PEOPLE ARE SERVING me some serious looks.
Then again, I am a human bumblebee in my massive Belle dress in the hospital elevator. A woman grumbles under her breath when I inadvertently bop her in the face with an obnoxiously large bundle of pink gift shop balloons. Along with the balloons, I’m also juggling a Flynn Rider pi?ata and one of Mel’s cast-iron frying pans to break it with—like in the movie when Rapunzel hits him in the face with a pan.
The party is scheduled to start in half an hour. It’s no Disneyland, but all the brightly painted whimsical cardboard structures serve as fuel for the imagination. Pink and purple streamers drape across the entire room, doing their best to mask the ugly hospital ceiling and walls. A long rectangular table sits in the middle of the room, draped in a hot-pink tablecloth, accented by sparkly confetti and princess plates, napkins, party hats, and gaudy plastic crowns.
Staff members are already milling about, assisting with the last-minute setup of the goody bags. Even Crystal and Scott are here, dressed as Snow White and Prince Charming, respectively. They’re the designated muscle, moving furniture and doing the miscellaneous heavy lifting. Trevor is nowhere to be seen, which is honestly making my anxiety even worse.
Angie spots me right away from the “window” of Rapunzel’s tower, which was a bitch to construct out of cardboard given its height. “It’s Belle!” She’s full of energy today, wide-eyed and giggly at the sight of the pi?ata in my arms. “And you brought the pan.”
Payton enthusiastically approves, dressed in a Princess Anna dress. “Oh my God. You look fantastic!” Something is different about her today. Usually, she looks weary, worn, and in need of a long nap. But today, she’s bright and lively. She folds me into a hug, although my hoop skirt prevents close contact. “I didn’t expect all of this. It’s above and beyond, honestly.”
“Believe it or not, Trevor helped with the cardboard construction. I did the painting,” I respond, setting the bundle of balloons in the corner of the room. I do my best to mask the somber look on my face as I mention Trevor.
“Where is Uncle Trev?” Angie asks. She tilts her head to see how far her braided wig extends to the ground.
“He’ll be here soon. He’s always early,” Payton guarantees, turning to me. “Thank you, by the way. For everything,” she adds.
“Don’t mention it. Honestly, I love parties. I told Trevor I’ll plan her party every year . . . if this one is up to Angie’s standards,” I tease, my voice cracking at the possibility of not being in their lives a year from now. Surely it would be strange for me to continue visiting Angie if Trevor and I are no longer a thing.
“No. It’s more than just the party,” Payton assures me. “Thank you for all the visits. And for keeping Trevor sane. He’s usually a nervous wreck whenever he visits her. More nervous than Angie, even. But you calm him somehow.” She glances at her daughter, and then back to me. “I’ve never seen him like this. Ever.”
I eye her sideways, hoisting the frying pan under my arm. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been sick over you, truly,” she responds.
“Who’s been sick?” Angie asks, her dark eyes darting back and forth between us.
“Uncle Trevor. He’s in love with Tara,” Payton explains, far too casually.
I nearly choke on my own saliva. Apparently, I’m the only one caught off guard by this statement, because Angie just rolls her eyes like this is last week’s news. “Oh. I already knew that.”
I’m about to launch into an interrogation when Angie’s stare moves past my face, over my shoulder. Her expression brightens instantly.
“Ange,” a deep warning voice grumbles.
Behind me is Trevor. In his Flynn Rider costume, filling out the vest and beige pants like a fantasy come to life. Except better, somehow. The tattoos embellishing his sinewed forearms peek from underneath hastily rolled shirtsleeves. I note that the buttons on his vest are buttoned unevenly, as if he didn’t bother checking his reflection in the mirror before leaving the apartment.
Similar to cartoon Flynn Rider, he’s generally disheveled. His hair is messy, like he’s raked his hand through it one too many times. His eyes are bloodshot, in desperate need of a good night’s rest. I idly wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.
Despite his obvious fatigue, his eyes still manage to ensnare mine, and the overwhelming sight sends my body into a state of shock. I’m at risk of flatlining from his mere proximity.
I barely register when Angie scolds him, ordering him to refer to her as “Rapunzel.”
Trevor gives her a cocksure smile. “Miss Rapunzel, are you gonna let down your hair for me or what?”
Angie giggles and points in my direction. “Nah. But Belle might.”
He swallows, tentative when he spots the pi?ata and accompanying cast-iron skillet in my hands. “Erm, I’m not so sure. Belle may prefer to bash my face in with cookware.”
I raise my free hand to proclaim innocence. “I’m not in a violent mood, lucky for you.”
He laughs. “That’s a relief.”
I’m not sure where to go from here, but under Payton and Angie’s watchful eyes, I’m feeling hella uncomfortable and paranoid they’ll sense the rift between us. Maybe it’s best to avoid him until the party is over. “Sorry, I’ve gotta set up the pi?ata,” I say, gathering the sides of my dress to walk away.
Trevor’s fingers clasp my wrist before I can make my escape. “Wait.”
When I stop, he releases my wrist, running a hand over the back of his neck.
I study him, waiting.
“God, I’m really fucking bad at this.” His honey eyes meet mine, sincere and earnest.
I can’t help but laugh. “Which part?”
He lifts both palms to the ceiling as Payton shuffles Angie away to greet guests, granting us some privacy in front of the cardboard tower. “All of it. I’m trying to grand gesture you. For the second time. And I’m trying not to make an ass of myself.”
I wait for him to continue.
“I’m so sorry for ruining your night last night. That was never my intention. I had this whole perfect surprise planned out and it just . . . went to shit.”