Epilogue
EPILOGUE
3 MONTHS LATER
L ow
Want to know what’s harder than writing a book?
Not much. Not running a podcast. Not packing up an old house and moving to a new one. Not listening to the constant hum of chainsaws, tires crunching over gravel, the ear-splitting squeals of children, or the delighted laughter of doting uncles. Not much at all is harder than writing a book.
There is one exception, however.
“Low is writing a book. Low is writing a very bad book.”
My jaw automatically clenches in an effort to keep myself from springing out of my chair, grabbing one very belligerent bird by the neck and hard launching him halfway to Canada. Fly away, bird. Fly far and free in the manner you deserve. At least then, I wouldn’t have to deal with a talking parrot who not only won’t let up in his constant requests for bourbon while I’m trying to write but also demands his input along the way.
“Low is writing a book. Low is writing a very bad book,” George says again. Everyone’s a critic; I just never knew that fact included a certain winged creature who shouldn’t have the ability to speak at all. Who invented talking birds, anyway?
For the seven hundredth time, I think about killing Nick for his above-average bird training skills. He said it one time . One time as a joke. And my grandmother’s dang bird has repeated that line ever since. Which—if we’re counting—is every second of the day for seventeen days and counting. I swear, it’s like having to reread the most scathing review before the book is even finished. George is an earworm who needs his vocal cords removed. Either that, or I will get him drunk before this day is over. I’m on a deadline, and one of us is about to die.
I’m in the middle of saying so when the front door opens, and my grandmother bangs her way inside the house like she owns the place, which she does. On Monday, I’m set to move into my new apartment downtown. I drop the accusatory finger I’m jabbing at George and rush to greet her.
“You’re home!”
She drops both suitcases she’s holding and slides a backpack off her shoulders to pull me into a full-body hug. Her skin smells like Crabtree and Evelyn and old money and sunshine.
“It’s so good to be home! But don’t think I didn’t hear the way you were talking to George just now.” She pulls back from me to make kissy faces at her bird. “How has my sweet boy been all this time?”
All this kissing makes my stomach roll. Apparently, it shows on my face.
“Don’t look at him like that,” she says to me. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“He doesn’t have feelings,” I say, pulling her into another hug. I don’t add that I’d like to hurt a lot more than his feelings. As if sensing my hostility, George chooses that moment to drop another insult.
“Low is writing a book. Low is writing a very bad book. George wants a shot of bourbon.”
My grandmother cackles as though it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. And when you hear all things strung together, I might think so as well if it didn’t sound so rude. My writing is driving this long-winded winged creature to drink?
Has any writer in history ever been insulted on this level?
“I’ve sure missed you,” she says, still talking to the bird. Finally, she turns to me. “Tell me everything that happened while I was gone. I want to hear about your book deal and your radio thingy…” She still calls it a “thingy.” “And everything else you’ve done lately. Did you like it here? Did the town grow on you? And just wait until you hear about my trip!”
Gran plops onto the living room sofa to remove her floppy hat and scarf—she’s wearing both though they don’t go together—and that’s when Nick walks inside.
She stops talking. Looks at him. Looks at me. And a conspiratorial grin slides up her lips like that was her plan all along.
“I see you met the cute widower next door,” she says to me, and I give her a look.
“Nowhere in your previous description did you utter the word ‘cute’.”
She waves a hand in the air between us. “Well, of course not. You might not have stayed here if you’d known I was setting you up. And Nick here might have stayed away, too.” She pulls a tube of Chapstick out of her bag and swipes it a few times across her lips. “I’m glad to see my plan worked. And I only had to pay Henry two hundred bucks to help make it happen.”
I frown. “Who’s Henry?”
She drops the Chapstick into her bag. “The mail boy. Why do you think he kept delivering your packages to each other’s homes?”
My jaw drops open, and I glance at Nick, but he’s as bewildered as me. “Because he’s terrible at his job!”
My grandmother laughs and waves a dismissive hand. “No one’s that bad.”
Nick looks at me, and I look up at him. “We got played,” I say.
“Looks like it. She’s kind of evil, that one.”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” Sometimes, my grandmother talks like a twelve-year-old preteen. But when she’s right, she’s right. “Did my plan work as well as it appears?”
I sigh, but it’s a happy one. We might have fallen victim to her plan, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even though I still regret seeing that package of nipple cream. “You’ll be happy to know it worked.”
Nick slides an arm around me and plants a kiss on the top of my head, the sensation traveling down my neck and spine and settling low in my stomach. I’m warm all over, inside and out. Thank God for manipulative grandmothers and world travel excursions.
“It worked,” he agrees, giving me a squeeze.
And it did. It worked better than I could have planned for myself.
Turns out I don’t need much in this world, but I do need Nick.
He’s still a helper of everyone, but he’s pulled back a bit. Not with me, though. He definitely needs me. It’s nice to be needed. It isn’t all that bad to say yes.
After all, I said it last night when he asked me the biggest question I’ve ever been asked.
“Yes,” was my answer. An emphatic, resolute yes.
Turns out “yes” is a very powerful word. Sometimes an even better word than “no.”
Especially when you’re saying it to the best person you’ve ever met.
THE END