My present is for both Gramps and Ollie, but it’s kind of the best.
I hand Ollie the envelope. His eyes bulge out of their sockets when he opens the card and boom, I am the best older sister on this planet. Success.
“How?” he asks, mouth open in awe.
“I’m the best,” I say.
“Obviously! Oh my God …” Ollie’s face scrunches. “There are only two tickets.”
“It’s a bro date,” I say.
“It’s too much,” Gramps says, eyes wide, but he’s smiling and that’s how I know I’ve nailed it.
“Clear your schedule for April sixth, Gramps. We’re going to the Red Sox home opener!” Ollie throws his arms around me. For a split second, I forget that lately he’s annoyed at me ninety percent of the time. I forget that I haven’t even told him about the panel yet. With this gift, I am the best, coolest sister again—if only for one night. I’m a pretty awesome granddaughter, too, if I do say so myself.
The small fortune was worth it just for the look on their faces.
Gramps gives Ollie his old baseball glove, but his gift for me is hand-wrapped—not in a bag—and suspiciously book-shaped. It’s … kind of disappointing. I mean, I know I am books. It is my brand. I guess I thought maybe Gramps would branch out into other realms of my interests. I contain multitudes. I rip the menorah wrapping paper, wondering which book on my TBR will be inside.
I’m not expecting a book I’ve already read.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. All proper and British, like Grams promised. Grams, who always said no true Harry Potter collection was complete without the philosopher’s stone. When she came back from the London Bookfair with Cadbury chocolate and a Harry and Meghan royal wedding mug, I just thought she forgot.
“Oh,” I say. I have the biggest lump in my throat. “Gramps—”
“It’s from us,” Gramps says. His voice cracks on us. “From our London trip, before—well, you know. It was supposed to be your birthday present. I found it when I put up your shelves. You should open it.”
There’s a handwritten note on the first page. Gram’s handwriting.
Happy birthday, Hal! Your collection is now complete. We love you. —Grams & Gramps
It’s so normal, so Grams. Like she had no idea this would be the last gift she’d ever give me. But just seeing her writing again is the real gift. I throw my arms around Gramps before I have the chance to overthink it.
I hold the book close to my heart and it hits me all at once—this Middle-of-Nowhere house is home. I can’t even imagine saying goodbye.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his scratchy grandpa sweater. “It’s the best.”
“Pretty sure these”—Ollie holds up the Red Sox tickets—“are better.”
We laugh and I’m grateful he’s always here to lighten the mood, even if he doesn’t need to. Gramps has been doing better. I’ve been doing better. We can miss her without spiraling into sadness. It’s Chanukah. We eat tons of latkes and tell stories and are comfortable sitting at the kitchen table for hours. Comfortable in our togetherness.
Before I know it, Ollie eats the last latke, his potato-to-sour-cream ratio a new level of disgusting, and the Chanukah festivities come to an end. Gramps turns the TV on, but the only choices are Christmas specials, so he turns it off and we start to clean up.
“Play that Chance guy,” Gramps says to Ollie and I die.
Near the end of dish duties, long after Gramps has retired to his room for the night and in the middle of yet another Chance the Rapper chorus, the doorbell rings. At first, I think it’s in the music, but then Scout jumps off her spot on the couch and runs to the door, so I know I’m not imagining it. The bell rings again. And again. And again.
“Answer the door, Hal,” Ollie says, elbows currently deep in dirty dishwater. “Please make it stop.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Nash Kim
Open the door, Upstate
9:01 PM
I stare at the text, processing.
Nash is here? But we’re still stewing in our awkward. I can’t answer the door. I don’t know how to be around him. I don’t know how to think around him. Especially now that he’s been texting Kels not just check-ins but actual worries about me, asking if I’m mad at him—for going to the dance with me? Almost as if I’m—Kels—is jealous? And I hate that. I hate that he thinks I’m mad at him about myself. I hate that this has all spiraled so far.
Mostly, I hate that he wants me—Kels—to be jealous.
The doorbell keeps ringing.
“Hal!” Gramps yells from upstairs. “Nash’s car is in the driveway.”
“Ollie’s getting it!” I yell up to Gramps.
“No, I’m not,” Ollie says, drying his hands with a paper towel.
“Can you tell him I’m not home?” I ask.
Ollie shakes his head. “It’s Chanukah, Hal. Absolutely not.”
I inhale a nervous breath. “Okay. I’ll get it. Can you, like, stay out of sight?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his hand to his heart.
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least be stealth about it.”
“You got it,” Ollie says.
I exit the kitchen and walk through the living room to the front door. I reread the text five times before I’m brave enough to open it.
“Hi,” Nash says, holding out a small gift bag. “Happy Chanukah.”
“Hey,” I say.
I don’t know what else to say, so I take the bag and hold the door open for Nash to come inside. Less because I want him to, and more because it’s too cold outside to join him. Nash follows me into the living room, and we sit in on the couch. Neither one of us knows what to say.
“Are you going to open it?” he asks.
“Oh. Right.”
I remove the tissue paper to uncover a wrapped box sitting at the bottom of the bag.
“You are not that guy,” I say.
“Oh, I am totally that guy.”
Inside the box is, oh wow—an embroidery hoop. I live for this crafty stuff. Grams tried to teach me embroidery when I was younger, but she just ended up finishing all of my hoops for me. In the center of this hoop—it’s a Nash original drawing. There’s no mistaking it. It’s a girl with long hair, her face hidden by the book she is reading. The muslin fabric is tie-dyed purple around the Book Girl, only she is not colored in.
It’s beautiful.
“I saw that you had a few when we were painting your room. I drew it—and sent the sketch to one of my blog friends who has an Etsy. I know things have been weird since, well—”
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
Nash relaxes. “Really? Cool.”
“Really,” I say.
It’s such a small detail in my life, such a Grams detail. I can’t believe he noticed. I can’t believe he drew something for me. It’s another complication, another check in the Nash is wonderful box and an X in the Halle is trash one.
I have no clue what this means.
“Can we talk?” Nash asks. “I’m really sorry—”