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 the 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??
1:28 PM
It’s always been possible for you.
1:28 PM
i appreciate the optimism on my behalf
1:31 PM
My face flushes. I can’t talk to Nash now without picturing him here, in front of me, speaking words. I used to spend so much time wondering who Nash is offline, if the real him could possibly live up to the profile. I can’t do that anymore, because Nash isn’t an internet persona. I don’t get to imagine who he is—he’s exactly who I thought he was, maybe even more.
I like who he is.
So even though these DMs are like every other conversation we’ve ever had, they feel off. I want to tell him about the paint, about Gramps and things getting an incremental step better.
Nash wouldn’t have tried so hard if he didn’t at least like Halle- me enough to want to be friends, right?
I stare at my phone, rereading our most recent messages until my vision blurs. We could have this—the banter, the real conversations, all of it—IRL. For the first time, I let myself imagine it and it’s not so scary anymore.
I owe Nash the truth.
But first, I owe him an apology.
I can’t tell him the truth when he’s mad at me. If I open up to him and he doesn’t take it well, all it takes is one tweet to shatter the persona I’ve crafted. I’m not ready to be Halle online and open myself up like that. The trolling about Alanna has been bad enough—if they make the connection that I’m Miriam Levitt’s granddaughter, I’ll be even more in focus. And it’ll influence the BookCon decision.
Kels needs to get the BookCon panel first.
It’ll prove to NYU that I’m enough without Grams’ editorial legacy.
But the original plan to keep my worlds separate? It’s not working.
The truth is, if the BookCon gods want me, Nash is going to find out. If we can exist as Nash and Halle once I stop pushing him away, maybe he’ll be excited if I tell him I’m Kels.
Before I can overthink it, I text Nash.
Hi
11:13 AM
Embarrassment slays me as soon as I hit send. He’s not going to respond. I wouldn’t respond to me either. This is a terrible idea. How have phones not invented the ability to unsend a text yet?
When my phone buzzes, I almost drop it.
Nash Kim
Wrong number?
11:16 AM
Right. Molly plugged Nash’s number into my phone after I declined bowling invite number three with a casual Text him if you change your mind, since she can’t get texts on Shabbat. She said it almost like she believed I would. It’s the first time I’ve ever put Nash Kim’s number to use. Of course, he doesn’t have mine.
Oh! Sorry—it’s Halle.
11:17 AM
Not funny, Sawyer.
11:17 AM
I’m positive I don’t want to know what that means.
No! It’s really me! The girl who assured you that you’re not a vegetable and then was a total jerk.
11:18 AM
Yeah, you kind of were.
11:19 AM
The jerkiest jerk. That was me.
11:19 PM
… And you’re texting me now because?
11:20 AM
Ugh. I deserve that.
11:21 PM
I’m just confused.
11:21 PM
Are you free today?
11:21 AM
…
11:25 AM
Seriously?
11:25 AM
I type and delete and type and delete. The amount of tension conveyed in a … Seriously? is nauseating. Every interaction between Nash and Kels is on the same page, whether light or serious.
It’s never like this.
Can we hang out? And by “hang out” I mean can you help me paint my room?
11:28 AM
I thought I’m supposed to be leaving you alone.
11:29 AM
Maybe you should ask Molly?
11:31 AM
a) It’s Shabbat.
11:33 AM