He scuffs the toe of his Chucks against the mulch. “I don’t know. You always look at me like you’d rather eat broccoli or something than engage in a conversation.”
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.