“Sure,” I said, but my chest filled with ice.
I didn’t know how I’d answer the questions he was about to ask me. Everything was too new. I followed him into the living room and took my seat. He stood in front of me, towering, not even a hint of a smile, only worry and sadness and something verging on panic.
“Listen,” he said. “I want to tell you about different kinds of love.”
I braced myself for his disapproval. I had rarely felt it before, and never for anything substantial. And I braced myself, too, for my anger. Because as unexpected as Mabel’s kiss had been, and as nervous and unsettled as I’d felt ever since, I knew that what we did wasn’t wrong.
“You may have gotten the wrong impression,” he continued. “About Birdie and me. It isn’t like that between us.”
I felt a laugh escape me. It was out of relief, but he didn’t take it that way.
“It may be difficult to believe,” he said. “I know it may have come across as . . . romantic, because of how I act when I get her letters. Because of that dress she sent me. But sometimes two people have a deep connection. It makes romance seem trivial. It isn’t about anything carnal. It’s about souls. About the deepest part of who you are as a person.”
He seemed so worried, so nervous. All of my relief slipped away, and concern replaced it.
“Okay, Gramps,” I said. “Whatever it is, I’m glad that you have her.”
He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it. He patted his forehead, his upper lip. I had never seen him so worked up about anything.
“Really,” I said. “Don’t worry about what I think. I just want you to be happy.”
“Sailor,” he said. “If I didn’t have her, I would be lost.”
I wasn’t enough of a companion. I wasn’t any kind of anchor. I felt the blow of it but I swallowed the hurt and said, “I’m sure she feels the same for you.”
He studied my face. It felt like he was looking through me to something else. He nodded, slowly.
“It’s true. Maybe even more so,” he said. “I need her and she needs me. Boy, does she need me.”
Maybe he was going to say more, but the doorbell rang, the card game was about to begin, so I got up and went down to open the gate. Usually I would clear the kitchen when they came, but I was afraid that something was wrong with Gramps. I wanted to know that he was back to himself. I finished drying the dishes on the rack as they poured their first drinks and started to play. Then I left for a while but couldn’t stop worrying, so I went back to make myself tea.
As the water heated up, I saw Jones take Gramps’s bottle, pour a little more into his glass.
Gramps eyed the glass, then eyed Jones.
“What’s that for?”
“You were empty.”
Jones glanced at the other two. Freeman was shuffling more times than necessary, but Bo met Jones’s eyes.
“No need to hurry me up,” Gramps said. “I’m getting there fine on my own.” His voice was low, almost a growl.
Bo shook his head. Something was a shame, but I didn’t know what.
Jones cleared his throat. He swallowed.
“It’s just a drink, Delaney,” he finally said.
Gramps looked up at Jones, his eyes fierce, for the entire time that Freeman dealt the cards. The other guys picked up their hands, putting what they received in order, but Gramps just stared, daring Jones to look back.
I didn’t know what was happening, but I wanted it to end.
“Gramps?” I said.
He jerked toward me as though he’d forgotten I was there.
“I was wondering . . . ,” I said, not knowing where my sentence would end. “Maybe . . . Will you drive me to school tomorrow? I might feel like sleeping in.”
“Sure, Sailor,” he said.
He turned back to the table. He picked up his cards. Everyone was quiet, no heckling, not a single joke.
“I’ll bet five,” Gramps said.
Jones folded.
I went back into my room with the tea and tried to forget.
Mabel and I texted for hours. We didn’t make plans to sneak out and meet. We didn’t even talk. Hearing the other’s voice would have been bright and dangerous, so instead we tapped out messages.
What were we thinking?
I don’t know.
Did you like it?
Yes.
Me too.
We texted about a song we liked and some random YouTube videos, about a poem we read in English that day, and what we would do if we were faced with the end of the world. We texted about Mabel’s uncle and his husband, who lived on three acres in New Mexico, and how we would make our way there, build a tepee, and dig a well and grow our food and make the most of what time we had left.
The end of the world never sounded so good.
I know!
I kind of want it to happen. Is that bad?
We could do all that stuff even without the apocalypse.
Good point.
So it’s a plan?
Yes.