Chapter 6 Now
I am splayed on my bed, sheets thrown off, hands tapping the mattress.
I can’t fall asleep. Last night went this way, too, which means I’m on track to spend hours counting the watermarks on my ceiling, reading a book I’m not invested in (if I read the one I am invested in, I definitely won’t fall asleep), drinking a glass of water, and practicing meditative breathing…
none of which will work. Then I’ll finally succumb to sleep at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night and wake up a few hours later, the second the sun is up.
I’m exhausted. My mind is racing. I can’t stop worrying. Something’s off with Alex.
I felt the shift right after we agreed to the vacation, and since then, as we’ve texted, coordinating our schedules, figuring out how long we want to go and which days we can both get off. Alex has been quiet, subdued—very un-Alex.
And, like the scaredy cat I am, I haven’t pushed, haven’t pressed, haven’t asked what’s bothering him. Because I’m afraid what’s bothering him is me.
I don’t know why, can’t put my finger on it. It’s a gut feeling that something I’ve said—or haven’t said—upset him. I could ask. I should ask. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m terrified I might find out that I’m right.
I’ve spent enough time in therapy the past year and a half to know what Sue, my therapist, would say if I told her why I’m spiraling and how I’m handling it.
She’d say my fear of talking to Alex about this is exactly why I should talk to Alex about this.
Then she’d remind me that conflict avoidance does not equate to consequence avoidance.
“Dammit, Sue.” I paw around my nightstand until I find my phone.
Before I can overthink it and talk myself out of texting him, I write the first thing that comes to mind and hit send.
You still awake?
I chuck my phone across the bed and pick up my boring book. I’m not going to lie here, staring at my phone, hoping Alex responds. Dreading how Alex might respond.
My phone buzzes. I drop the book, scramble for my phone among the sheets, and flop onto my stomach. I hold my breath as I read Alex’s response.
Why wouldn’t I be??
I squint at my phone’s screen, registering the time. Huh. It’s only ten p.m.
So, I type, somehow I missed that it’s not the middle of the night.
My phone buzzes with his response.
Give yourself some credit. You’re on a grandpa’s sleep schedule, so thinking it’s the middle of the night at 10pm isn’t far off.
Relief whooshes through me. He teased.
I bite my lip, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Then I type, I really appreciate that you compared me to a grandPA.
Everyone knows it’s only grandpas who go to bed at 8pm—Grandmas are the party animals.
I smile. You do realize not all grandmas are as cool as your mom.
Don’t let Lydia hear you calling her a grandma. Mia’s lucky she gets away with calling her Nones.
She won’t hear it from me! I type. Well, not the grandma part. I’ve told your mom before and I’ll tell her again, she’s the coolest.
Eh, his text says. She’s all right.
I roll my eyes. Alex’s mom has him wrapped around her finger. Clearly, I type. “All right” is a solid basis for your delusional “party animal grandma” concept.
Fine, my mom’s cool, he says, but I’m telling you, even boring moms turn into party animal grandmas.
I try to picture my mother, the serious, self-disciplined retired teacher who still goes to bed at nine and wakes up at the butt crack of dawn every morning, ever becoming a party animal.
I can’t see it, I type.
Ted, grandmas are liberated women. They finally don’t have to give a shit about everything they had to for the past thirty years.
Find me a grandma who isn’t living her best nightlife, now that she finally has that time to herself.
No kids to put to sleep, no teenagers out worryingly late, no one’s laundry to do, no meals to plan.
No grandpas to entertain, I add. Since they went to bed hours ago.
Exactly! he says. Which is why I call Mia’s days with Jen my granny time.
A laugh jumps out of me. Look at you, a liberated woman!
I’d be able to enjoy it more, he says, if the Buccos weren’t getting their asses kicked and I could figure out today’s Wordle.
To your credit, I tell him, today’s Wordle was hard.
Ted! he says. NO hints.
My smile squishes my cheeks up to my eyes. It’s the blessing and the curse of my friendship with Alex. It’s so easy talking like this. And it makes it that much harder when I need to talk to him about something that isn’t.
Hey, I write.
I take a deep breath, rubbing where worry sits heavy in my chest. I want to talk to him about this. I want to know if he’s okay, and if he’s not, what I can do. But I can’t text about it.
I type, then hit send before I chicken out, Tomorrow is our friendiversary.
The text shows as read. An ellipsis appears, telling me he’s typing. It disappears. Appears again.
I push through the anxiety squeezing my insides and type, then hit send. How do you feel about grabbing our traditional celebratory gelato a night early?
Another ellipsis. Finally, my phone buzzes with his text.
Luna’s is closed.
My heart plummets. Alex’s family owns Luna’s, and since becoming friends, the past two summers we’ve snuck in after-hours countless times for late-night gelato. This summer, we haven’t, and I don’t know why.
My phone buzzes again with another text from him. This time, when I read it, my heart soars right up to my throat.
Luckily, he says, I’ve got a key to a restaurant that stocks their gelato. Tell me when to pick you up.
I spring up in bed, tripping on the sheets as I climb out while typing, I can be ready in 5!
My phone buzzes with his response.
No rush on my end, gramps. This granny’s got all night.
I should have pushed back on Alex’s counteroffer to stop by his restaurant. But I didn’t feel like I had the leverage. Now I barely feel like I have a grip on anything.
Alex stands at one of the professional cooking ranges, backward ballcap on, apron strings tied tight, flipping a pan as heat dances beneath it.
A quick late-night bite, he explained when we got here, and I swear it’s because somehow he’d sensed I hadn’t eaten more than peanut butter crackers for dinner.
I was too worked up to try to cook something for myself from my small repertoire.
Now I’m biting my lip as I sit on a stool nearby, trying not to implode from lust as I watch him work.
I’ve seen Alex cook at home so many times, but watching him cook in his restaurant is new. It’s tender, vulnerable. He’s just dipping his toes back in the professional kitchen waters.
After a long stretch of silence, I ask him, “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken piccata,” he says.
My heart jumps in my chest. That’s one of my favorites. The first chicken dish he taught me how to cook. Sliding off the stool, I reach for an apron from a neatly folded stack. And then I walk over to the handwashing station. “Mind if I join in, Chef?”
Alex glances over his shoulder, and my breath catches. The sharp line of his profile, the furrow in his brow, the beads of sweat on his skin from the heat he’s bent over.
A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t mind at all.”
Bellies full of chicken piccata, gelato cups in hand, Alex and I stand at the intersection down the street from his restaurant, waiting to cross.
The park we’re headed toward technically closes at dusk, but there’s a worn-smooth wood bench beneath a two-story birch tree at its entrance, waiting for us.
Alex nudges my shoulder with his. “Ted.”
“Hmm?” My eyes are shut, tart-sweet key lime gelato melting on my tongue. “Time to cross?”
“Not yet,” he says. “You take your lactase pill?”
“Yep.” The pedestrian light flashes on, and we step out into the crosswalk. “Thanks for asking. I do feel like you missed an opportunity, though, to call me Gramps, with the lactase pill check-in.”
“True.” His gaze zigzags across the road, watching for cars as we cross. “Guess I’m not on my game today.”
I glance his way, cataloging the visual confirmation that my hunch was right, that something is upsetting Alex—shoulders curled in, jaw tight.
We step up onto the curb, headed toward the bench.
“Hey.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.
He doesn’t look my way. He’s stirring his zabaione gelato so vigorously, it’s turning into zabaione soup. “Hmm?”
We drop onto the bench—which is more like a one and half seater than two—our hips, elbows, and shoulders pressed against each other. I swallow, nervous, and peer down at my gelato as I ask him, “What’s wrong?”
In my peripheral vision, I watch him freeze, then slowly peer up at me. He clears his throat, then says, “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“I don’t think. I know. I know you, Alex. I know when you’re upset. What I don’t know is the reason…” I bite my lip. “If it’s my fault.”
Alex freezes again, midstir. Silence stretches out in thick, slow seconds. He resumes stirring and says, “No, Ted. It’s not your fault.”
I hiss out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding while waiting for him to answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah.” He tips back his cup of gelato soup and takes a swig. “Talked about it with Atlas.”
“Oh.” I shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s good that he talked to his therapist, that he had someone to help him work through whatever’s upsetting him. But selfishly, now that I know I’m not to blame, I wish he’d want to share that with me, too. “That’s good,” I tell him. “Was it helpful?”
Alex sinks back into the bench, legs outstretched, and crosses his ankles. He nods. “Yeah. Talking to Atlas always helps.”
I poke at my gelato. “I still can’t believe you have a therapist named Atlas.”
“I chose my therapist because he was named Atlas.”
A laugh jumps out of me. I’ve never heard this. “Why?”
“It’s a badass name,” Alex says. “Did I picture my badass therapist named Atlas being older than my dad and fond of bow ties? No. But the guy’s definitely delivered on the badassery.”