I roll my eyes. “If you want me to stroke your ego, that’s not—”
Nash shakes his head. “That’s not it.”
“So, what is it?” I ask, surprised by how much I want to know.
“Why is your broccoli face only for me?”
I shake my head. “Stop saying that. For the record, I like broccoli. Olives, though—”
“Not the point.”
“Nash.”
“Halle.”
“You’re not broccoli.”
Nash opens his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzes again.
“Sorry,” he says, his eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s Molly. Your brother is looking for you. And Molly, apparently, is looking for me.”
I stand up and smooth down my skirt, then glance at my watch. It’s later than I thought. “I guess we should probably—”
“Probably,” Nash says. “You okay?”
I nod, following Nash back toward the warmth of the house. Away from the magical three-slide playground, away from the shadows and saying too many things and not enough at the same time. Away from telling Nash he’s not broccoli.
Inside, Gramps is sitting at the head of the Jacobsons’ table with Ollie by his side. A half-eaten piece of apple pie is in front of Gramps and he’s laughing with another Old Man Friend, but something is up. He’s slumped in the chair, his hands hanging over the arms. When he leans forward and scoops a piece of apple pie sloppily into his mouth, drops of vanilla ice cream drip onto his lap.
“Halle!” Gramps slurs, mouth half-full with pie. “I was saving you some pie. But now I’m eating it. Because I got hungry. Sorry.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s okay, Gramps.”
I don’t know what to do, Ollie mouths to me.
I’ve never seen Gramps like this before. Okay, so most of the adults in the room are well past sober—but this is Gramps. And this isn’t “Islands in the Stream” on Thanksgiving tipsy.
He waves for me to lean closer. Then closer still. I bend down to Gramps-in-a-chair level and rest my hands on my knees. It’s like he wants to whisper something in my ear and oh my God Molly and Nash are watching. This is so embarrassing.
“You might need to drive home tonight,” he whisper-shouts.
Home sounds great. Home sounds like it should happen right now.
“Okay. Should we—”
“There might be more apple pie left. But probably not. It’s really good.”
I stand up, face burning as Gramps laughs too loud. Nash makes eye contact with me and he’s the only one in this kitchen, besides Ollie and me, who looks genuinely concerned. Ollie chugs a glass of water. It’s not funny when the drunk old guy is your drunk old guy. And now Gramps is giggling like crazy about God knows what, octaves higher than normal grandpa laughter.
Add giggling to the list of things grandpas shouldn’t do.
I squat back down to Gramps’s level and fake a yawn.
“Can we go?” I ask. “I’m super tired.”
Gramps rolls his eyes.
“Me too,” Ollie says.
“Halle. Oliver,” he says mid-chew. “It’s only”—he glances down at his watch—“ten o’clock.”
“Gramps,” I say. Firm, this time. “Let’s go.”
A statement, not a question.
“Let me finish my damn pie.”
The harshness in his voice takes me aback. The playfulness that accompanied him moments ago vanishes. He’s never raised his voice to me, not even when he was upset about the cupcakes. And it’s just—that’s it. I’m so tired. It’s too much. Too much social interaction, too much constant tension, too much everything. I know that he’s hurting, but I’m done.
I hold my hand out to Gramps. “Keys.”
Surprised by my tone, he reluctantly hands them over.
“I’ll be in the car,” I tell Ollie.
Then I bolt, weaving through the nameless strangers. I need to get away from everything about tonight ASAP. Away from the side eye, “Islands in the Stream,” the broccoli. All of it.
“Halle! Halle, wait!”
I don’t wait. I twist the handle and push the door open. Walk down the steps and across the lawn to where Gramps’s Corolla is parked halfway up the sidewalk.
Nash catches up to me as I’m fumbling with the car keys, trying to get the door open. You need to manually open the doors with, like, a key, and my hands are shaking. It can’t just be easy. Shit.
“Halle.” Nash’s voice is quiet. “Can I help?”
I can’t deal with Nash right now. I thought splitting myself made sense. I thought nothing would change. Now everything is changing. I have to file Nash stories in two sections of my brain: stories for Halle and stories for Kels.
Things got way too blurred tonight. It needs to stop.
He needs to be Kels’s. Only Kels’s.
I turn around, the jagged edges of the keys digging into my palm.
“Take the hint. Leave. Me. Alone.”
Nash blinks. Takes a step back. “Wow. Okay. I get it. Message delivered, loud and clear.”
I can’t deal with the hurt on his face for one second longer, so I turn my attention back to unlocking this freaking door, while Nash’s footsteps become farther and farther away.
I pull the handle, throw the door open, and lock myself in, then pull out my phone to … what? Message Nash? He’s fifty feet from me, silhouetted in the front window of Molly’s house. He’s never felt farther away.
I look away, back at my screen without seeing it.
Tap. Tap tap.
When I look up, Gramps is looking at me through the passenger-side window, his nose squished against the glass, his breath fogging it up. As soon as I unlock the doors, Ollie slides into the back and Gramps flops into the passenger seat. His bloodshot eyes look into mine and he smells like grapes and whiskey.
“What?” Gramps snaps. “You wanted to go. Drive.”
“Fine.”
I shift the car into drive and my foot tentatively releases from the brake to tap the gas. My heart beats a million miles beyond the speed limit but it’s okay because we’re on the road and I’m driving and we will get back in one piece. I focus on the road, on getting us back to Gramps’s.
Gramps shifts in his seat. Adjusts the back multiple times, unable to find a comfortable position. Then he flips through the radio stations, shunning all things country before cutting the music entirely and stewing in the silence.
“It’s the first one,” Gramps slurs. “That damn song.”
My breath catches in my throat because of course. When Nash led me up the stairs and through the soundproof basement door, the music followed me.
“I miss her,” I say. It’s the first opportunity he’s given me to say it, to talk about her.
“Me too,” Ollie adds.
“You don’t even know,” Gramps says. He leans back in the seat and closes his eyes once more, his index and middle fingers rubbing his temples.
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. He acts like he’s the only one who’s allowed to be hurting. It’s been almost a month and I’m still completely walking on eggshells around him. He can eat the cupcakes but can’t bear the baking. He can laugh and joke at temple but ignores us completely in the house. We can talk about Grams, but only if he starts the conversation. I’m so sick of grieving on his terms.
“I want the books,” I say, the words falling from my lips before I can take them back.
“What?” Gramps’s asks.
“Grams’s books. I’m going to get them this weekend. I want them,” I say.
Gramps shakes his head. “They’re not yours.”
“Because you’re definitely putting them to use,” I snap.
“Halle,” Ollie says. “Stop it.”
“If you won’t remember her, someone should.”
My hands shake violently and tears blur my vision. We’re on a residential street that connects Molly’s neighborhood to ours. I pul
l over and put the car in park.
Gramps exhales. “Just take us home, Hal.”
I shake my head. “Grams would hate what you did to the house.”
“I know.” Gramps’s voice is hollow.
“I hate the house,” I say.
“Damn it, Halle, I know.”
Gramps’s voice reverberates off the windows before silence settles in the car; the only noise I can hear is the angry beat of my broken heart. I don’t think I’ve rendered Ollie silent before. Ever. I’m never loud enough. My words are never sharp enough.
For the first time since I arrived in Middleton, I don’t try to filter what I’m feeling.
“Then why did you do it?”
“You can’t even imagine.” Gramps’s voice cracks. “It’s like half of me died.”
I exhale. Twist the key in the ignition and shift the car into drive.
“Me too. But you’re not dead, Gramps. You’re not.”
We shift into silence and eventually I start to drive again. I’m struggling for the right words to say, the right way to tell Gramps, I am hurting too and I am here.
Instead, I hold my breath the rest of the ride home, thinking for a girl who loves words, I’m pretty much the worst at articulating the first draft.
September 29
Nash Stevens
LOL remember when I said “Progress!” re: Halle? I take it back.
8:30 AM
You were right.
8:31 AM
As of today, I am officially done trying to be Halle’s friend.
8:32 AM
i’m sorry
8:33 AM
You’re not going to say “I told you so”?
8:33 AM
there are, in fact, some cases in which i don’t like gloating about being right. this happens to be one of them
8:34 AM
i DID, however, screenshot
“You were right” for future reference
8:34 AM
I set myself up for that
8:35 AM
seriously though—are you ok?
8:36 AM
Yeah.
8:36 AM
I always feel better when I’m talking to you.
8:36 AM
[typing]
TEN
Halle’s life has been particularly Not Great in the three weeks following the Rosh Hashanah disaster, but at least Kels is thriving.
It’s only been four days, and the Read Between the Lies cover reveal has already surpassed Fireflies and You in terms of most-liked OTP Instagram post. As of this morning, it has more than 200K likes. Ariel boosted the video on her personal Twitter account, which got the attention of other YA authors and publishers. My inbox is nuts right now—totally overflowing with cover reveal requests. Next level officially unlocked.
Read Between the Lies has been the perfect distraction from all things Fireflies and You. I know it’s temporary relief. Alanna will say something else to make everyone upset soon enough. But for now? I’m living for all the OTP love currently happening in the feed. Every time I check Twitter, I have more followers.
Creating content that people are content with? That makes people excited to read ? It’s the best feeling in the universe. It’s a feeling I’m going to write about in my NYU admissions essay. Once they see OTP, how much love goes into it and how much traction it receives? I know it’ll make up for the lack of traditional extracurriculars on my application. Who has time for student council or debate team when you’re actively pursuing your dreams?
Plus, it’s super validating, being able to bask in my success with my friends, given that Ollie is the only person I can talk to about this IRL.
Amy Chen
KELS! Bustle shared your post!
10:32 PM
Samira Lee
You’re going to be the go-to person for major reveals now—this is HUGE
10:34 PM
Elle Carter
… and lucky. Enjoy the break from Alanna angst while it lasts
10:34 PM
Samira Lee
IGNORE ELLE. YOU’RE THRIVING
10:34 PM
I cling to my online world and how great it feels to be Kels right now because IRL, time passes not in days of the week, but in Jewish holidays. I never knew how many important moments were crammed within the three weeks following Rosh Hashanah. Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah come one after another. Temple makes my stomach twist in unfamiliar knots because though I love it, ever since Rosh I’m feeling more and more like I don’t fit in with these people.
Molly and Nash are at every service. Nash pretends I don’t exist. It’s like, now he looks at me and he doesn’t even see me. I eat lunch in the library now, where I’m free to message him and my friends and work on OTP stuff. But now when I message Nash, I’m wondering what he’s talking about with Le Crew. It was too hard to keep sitting with them—too impossible to ignore Nash ignoring me. It hurt. And it’s the worst because it has no right to hurt—I asked for this. I wanted him to leave me alone.
It worked. Everything is great between Nash and Kels. Better than ever, theoretically. Except for the ways it isn’t. Nash is real now. He has a voice and a laugh and I can’t stop thinking about us on the swings and how good it felt, being able to talk about Grams with him.
How there are conversations I can have with Nash that Kels never could.
At least now it’s the first Saturday I’m free since the whirlwind of holidays, so I try to refocus on catching up with my mentions and chat with my friends.
Halle’s problems can wait until Monday.
There’s a knock on my door and I look up from my screen, expecting to see Ollie.
I blink.
It’s Gramps.
“Oh,” he coughs. “You’re still in your pajamas.”
Gramps is dressed before eleven on a Saturday. He’s wearing a green sweater over a white collared shirt and jeans. I’m so shocked by the clothes, it takes me a moment to meet his eyes, to register his face and see that the beard is gone. It’s just gone and Gramps looks put together for the first time in over a month—but he acts like it’s weird that I’m still in my pajamas?
“It’s Saturday,” I say slowly, trying to mask the emotion in my voice.
“We’re going to Ludlow’s. Get dressed. I’ll be in the car.”
Gramps is gone before I have a chance to catch my breath, to form words, to ask what the hell is going on. It’s the first time Gramps has looked at me, I mean, really looked at me, since I snapped in the car. I’d say we’ve been avoiding each other, but that’s pretty impossible. Whenever we’re in the same space though, just the two of us without Ollie, the tension is so thick, and neither of us breaks it.
Gramps is trying to break it—with a trip to a home improvement store?
I’m dressed and out the door in minutes.
* * *
We pick through paint swatches at Ludlow & Sons as though our relationship depends on it.
Gramps selects two shades. “One of these? Are we getting closer?”
We’ve been standing here for an hour. It’s not that I’m incapable of making a decision. It’s more like I’m processing that I’m here. I’d pretty much accepted my orange room fate until now. And I’m still skeptical of the normalcy of this outing, that we’re finally getting the paint he promised on day one.
“They look exactly the same.”
Gramps analyzes the swatches. “You’re right. Hm.” He places the swatches back in the shelf and takes a step back, assessing. I’m ready to close my eyes and select at random at this point.
“Aha!” Gramps reaches for a swatch in the top row, for a shade that has been out of my line of vision. “This one. It’s like the frosting.”
Gramps’s voice catches on frosting and I look up at him, allowing myself to wear my emotion on my face. Gramps swallows and holds out the swatch. I’m so scared I’ll say the wrong thing and send Gramps spiraling back into his grief. I take th
e swatch from his hand and study it. Lily lavender. I close my eyes, imagining lavender walls and dark mahogany bookshelves. For the first time, I see a space that is mine.
I nod. “It’s perfect.”
“Hal,” he says, his voice hoarse from participating in weeks of services. “I—”
I shake my head. “It’s okay to not be okay.”
It comes out in one breath, forced from my throat before I can overanalyze.
Gramps is here. For the first time since I arrived. He’s hurting—but he’s trying. It’s all I’ve wanted, for us to be in this, together. My Gramps is still in there, somewhere, and it’s such a relief to see him. This might be temporary. Next Saturday he might revert back to his pajama weekend ways. For now, it feels like he heard me.
I’m sorry, says the weight of the can in my hands, a whole gallon of lily lavender. I have paint and Gramps and I are on speaking terms—and it’s because of me. Because of my words.
I’m always so hung up on saying the right thing, on stringing the perfect sentence together. Maybe it’s okay for my words to come out messy and wrong sometimes, as long as they’re true.
* * *
A few hours later, Kels and Nash are texting, and for the first time, I wish we were talking.
Nash Stevens
Well, now it just feels like you’re using me for my design skills.
1:21 PM
oh, absolutely
1:22 PM
you’re just figuring this out?
1:22 PM
come on, learning to use editing software is a skill, not, like, a whole freaking ART
1:23 PM
Okay maybe not the art part. But I’m just saying, if you can shoot and edit a video in high-def, you can learn HTML
1:24 PM
but why learn HTML when I have you
1:24 PM
HA. But seriously. You’re getting the BookCon panel. You know that right?
1:25 PM
maybe? i hope so? a girl can dream …
1:25 PM
So you want it now?
1:25 PM
i’ve always wanted it. i think i just believe it’s a little more possible now??
What I Like About You Page 10
