“Oh stop, you know that’s not what I meant. I just think maybe certain things worked out the way they were supposed to. You stepping in to help Gran, us being nearby to support you through a rough patch, you getting a chance to pause and catch your breath and focus on your future. I know you may not see it that way because the circumstances weren’t ideal, but you made a lot of really big, brave decisions most people wouldn’t have the guts to make. Honestly, I’m in awe of you.”
Well, that does it—my eyes blow right past misty into full-blown fire hoses. “You know I’m not emotionally stable enough to receive compliments right now,” I blubber, dabbing at my eyes with the anchor-print napkin she passes me.
“Too bad, you’re getting ’em,” she says, leaning over to hug my neck. “As Kris Jenner would say: You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
Now I’m laughing through my tears. “Welp, I don’t know about the ‘brave’ part, but I am working on it,” I say through sniffles. “You know what I was thinking about the other day? Mrs. Williams’ class. Do you remember it?”
“Of course I remember! She was our kindergarten teacher,” Christine explains to a bemused Greg. “She kept this giant iguana as the class pet.”
“And on our birthday, she’d give each of us a birthday balloon.”
“She had a helium tank in her classroom and everything!” Christine adds gleefully.
“That’s right. So she’d give us our birthday balloon, and then we’d have to decide if we wanted to keep it to take it home, or”—I pause for dramatic effect—“pop it.”
Christine hoots and smacks the counter while Greg just shakes his head at us wearily. Tough luck, bud, you’re getting dragged down memory lane whether you like it or not.
“You have to understand how terrifying this was for a six-year-old,” I insist. “She literally made you go after it with a thumbtack! The loud popping noise was bad enough, but I think the anticipation of it was even worse.” I shudder. “So naturally, all the boys popped theirs because they needed to prove how brave they were.”
“Let me guess,” Greg says to Christine with a smirk. “You popped yours.”
“Of course I popped mine,” she says, indignant. “I had to impress Joey Watson, duh.”
“And I, of course, did not. Because I’ve been a wimp since birth.” I toss back my Dixie cup of wine like a shot and slam it down on the counter. “Fill ’er up.”
“You’re being way too hard on yourself,” Christine argues while Greg pours me another thimbleful. “In fact, you were the smarter one in this scenario, because you got to enjoy and savor the balloon for longer than ten seconds. The rest of us bozos succumbed to peer pressure and cheap thrills.”
I arrow her a look. “While I appreciate your generous attempt to rewrite history, I was, in fact, being a massive wimp. And you know what? I have spent far too much of my life running from risk. I am done playing it safe. From now on, I’m popping every balloon.” No one will ever call me a coward again.
“I feel like this deserves a toast,” Greg says.
“Hear hear!” Christine chimes in, linking her arm through mine as he tops us all off, and the three of us raise our Dixie cups aloft.
“To popping balloons,” Christine says, her eyes shining at me.
I squeeze her arm and tap my cup to theirs. “To popping balloons.”
Chapter 19
What’s the difference between a twenty-eight-year-old single woman and a ninety-year-old widow?
About three weeks.
It’s the joke I crack to anyone who asks how I’m faring at Gran’s, and while my tongue may be firmly planted in cheek, there’s more truth to it than I’d prefer to admit. I’ve only been living with her for a few weeks and I’ve basically turned into an old biddy.
Don’t get me wrong—Gran is an excellent roommate. Top-notch, really. She’s quiet, goes to bed early, doesn’t smoke or steal my clothes. She’s an excellent TV binge buddy. She’s also the least demanding landlord I’ve ever had, since, you know, I’m not paying rent. What’s not to love?
But in the span of just a few short weeks, I’ve noticed some alarming personality changes. I make comments like “It’s getting late” around six p.m. I’ve started craving the disgusting Lipton iced tea packets she stirs into everything. Complaining about the cold dominates an increasing number of my adult conversations. I catch myself wearing house slippers to shuffle out to the mailbox. Oh, and let’s not forget I’m now a cat lady.
Our nonstop togetherness does result in some amusing diversions, though. Once I filled her in on all the retro-inspired pranks I pulled on Jack—and as punishment for not including her in the con to begin with—she devises a fifties-style boot camp and puts me through my paces. She teaches me how to make a proper old-fashioned, down to expressing the orange peel. She back-combs my hair to new heights and makes me sport a bouffant to Sunday Mass. She barks at me like a drill sergeant until I can flawlessly re-create winged eyeliner. We watch more of those Old Hollywood movies and she schools me on celebrity scandals of the golden age until I could write a dissertation on Elizabeth Taylor’s tumultuous love life. We laugh ourselves silly trying to mimic the Transatlantic accent and rapid-fire speaking style used by rom-com power couple Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. We raid her closet, which is so chock-full of vintage gems that I can’t believe Nat and I wasted our time treasure-hunting through the city instead of coming straight to the source. Some pieces are so breathtaking I can hardly bring myself to touch them, but Gran insists I model each one while she regales me with glamorous tales of where, when, and with whom she wore them.
It’s a gift, I realize, to be her caretaker, to be living inside this pocket of time with her. Behind every article of clothing, piece of jewelry, faded photograph, and antique knickknack is a story, a memory, a priceless piece of family lore I’d never know otherwise. And as positive as her prognosis is, her stroke’s served as a grim reminder that once Gran is gone, she’s gone—and she’ll take all her memories with her.
Which is why I’m shamelessly mining those memories for my book.
“Okay, so.” I reposition myself on Gran’s bed, crisscrossing my legs beneath me and settling my computer on my lap. She’s propped up against the pillows, Pyewacket dozing in a puffy ball between us, tail occasionally flicking my way as if to remind me who’s really in charge here. “I’m trying to show how my heroine is transforming. She’s grudgingly adapting to her new world and starting to see both the culture and our hero in a new light, but I don’t want her to lose herself in the process. I need to show her personal growth—while keeping her likable, of course.”
Gran quirks a brow.
“Romance readers are much more judgmental about the heroine than the hero,” I explain. “Basically, they’ll excuse any bad behavior from him, but not from her. So she’s allowed to have flaws, but they can’t be too egregious. She can be strong and independent, but not too opinionated, or readers will say she’s obnoxious and unlikable. It’s a whole thing, don’t even get me started.”