Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Rosalie slips her hand into mine. I am so aware of the feel of her, of the grooves and contours of her fingers, of her skin pressed against mine. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get this back, and now that it’s real, I’m taking in every detail.
“Grammy is a little eccentric, but she’s wonderful.” She pauses just before we pass through the kitchen doorway. “Still, she may ask you inappropriate questions.”
I’m not sure about this meeting—but at our last introduction, Noreen most certainly asked me inappropriate questions. I had no idea how to answer this one: “All the kids are French kissing, but do you know how to Swiss kiss?”
I am well aware now, thanks to Grammy.
“That’s fine,” I tell Rose. “I’m just happy to be here.
” And I am. I’m also a ball of nerves. My girl’s hand is back in mine after months and months of going without.
And yet, I’m supposed to pretend that I’ve never met Noreen before.
That she didn’t swat me on the butt and make me flex for Kermit.
That I didn’t spend evening after evening in her home after Kermit died.
Noreen and I are old friends at this point.
And yet, I wait for introductions like this meeting is taking place for the very first time. It feels so dishonest. So wrong. But I’m not sure what else to do.
“Grammy,” Rosalie calls, and Noreen pops her little gray head out of the pantry.
“Give me one second,” she says, her head disappearing back into the closet.
I peer around the space that Rosalie and her grandmother have set up together.
There’s the cuckoo clock that belonged to her other grandmother.
The one who passed away before I knew Rose.
It goes off every hour—like clockwork. I have no idea how either of them live with it.
But I feel a sense of comfort seeing it there on her wall like always.
“Found it!” Grammy calls from within the pantry. She comes out with a jarred spice, holding it high in the air. Whatever the mystery contents are, she sprinkles them into the pot on the stove before walking over to us.
She plants her small stature right in front of us, then tilts her head to peer up at me. She grins, and it’s more than a greeting—it’s conspiratorial.
“Grammy,” Rosalie says, her palm going clammy against mine. “This is my friend, Zevulun Hayes.”
“Smooching all night long feels like it might be a little more than friendship, dear.”
Rosalie’s jaw clenches, but she presses onward. “Zev, this is my grammy—Noreen Conrad.”
Noreen holds out her palm, and I take her hand and shake it. “Uh, hello,” I say, even my greeting sounds wrong.
“Hello, yourself,” Noreen says. “It’s about time you came around here.”
“Grammy,” Rosalie hisses. “It’s new. It’s—”
“New, schmoo.” Noreen waves a hand in the air. “I’ve been waiting to chat with the redhead.”
“Zev,” Rosalie grumbles, though Noreen is well aware of my name. She glances up at me. “We don’t refer to you as the ‘redhead.’”
“Well, I do.” Noreen loops her arm through mine, and my hand slips out of Rosalie’s. I refrain from cursing. She walks me over to the table and motions for me to sit. “It’s good to have you here,” she says, holding my gaze in a stare. There’s a lot more to that short sentence than what’s stated.
Rosalie sits next to me and my insides flutter when she rests her hand on my thigh, mouthing the word, “Sorry,” to me.
I shake my head, just a little, and smile at her. Noreen doesn’t bother me, and this is tame compared to that first meeting.
“I’ll fix the plates,” Rosalie says. “Is spaghetti okay?”
“Of course spaghetti’s okay,” Noreen says. “He loves spaghetti. Who doesn’t love spaghetti?”
“Okay then,” Rosalie sweetly growls at her grandmother as a false smile stretches across her face, from ear to ear.
“She’s right,” I assure Rose. “I do love spaghetti.” Especially Noreen’s.
“Sit down, Grammy.” Rosalie pats her grandmother’s shoulder. “You did all the cooking. I’ll dish up and we’ll do the dishes.”
Noreen takes a seat at my left, right across from Rose’s spot at this small table.
She looks at me pointedly, the penciled brows on her head lifting.
She’s attempting to communicate without words.
I give her the smallest of shoulder shrugs.
Because I have no idea what I’m doing or what she’s trying to tell me.
After Robert’s deception, Rosalie is pretty opposed to any kind of lying, and yet here we are, me and her grammy acting as if we don’t know one another.
But Grammy’s mouth is in a tight line. She slides one finger over her sealed lips, her eyes wide, reminding me that Rosalie specifically told her family and friends not to share information unless asked.
After that first panic attack came another and another.
At least that’s what I was told. Callum relayed all he could as I lay in a hospital bed attempting to recover from our accident.
This situation feels so tricky though. I’m honestly not sure what Rose would want us to do.
“Nice daisies,” Noreen murmurs under her breath. “Her favorite.”
“I know,” I murmur right back.
“Do you want salad?” Rosalie asks from the small kitchen within this dining space.
“Yes. Please.” I clear my throat and raise my voice for Rose. “Thank you.”
“Have you brought up marriage yet?” Noreen shields her mouth with her hand and whispers in my direction.
“What?” I bark, startled. She can’t be serious.
“What was that?” Rosalie asks from the kitchen.
I stare at Grammy, my eyes bugging out.
“Nothing, dear. Just some small talk with your redhead.” But then Noreen’s looking at me again, waiting for an answer to that ballistic question.
Rosalie decided she liked me yesterday and Noreen would like me to bring up marriage today? Is she trying to make her granddaughter run from me?
My face must be stern as I mouth the word “NO.” Because Noreen throws up both hands, waving her white linen napkin in the process.
Seconds later, Rosalie’s back with plates in hand. She sets one in front of Grammy and then me. Rose goes back to the open kitchen for her own plate and Grammy scowls at me. Less than a minute later, she’s back, sitting next to me and Grammy is all smiles.
“So,” Noreen says as her fork twirls, gathering spaghetti noodles. “How many children do you see yourself having, Zev?”
Rosalie chokes on her single bite. “Grammy! I’m so sorry, Zev.” And then she’s glaring at her grandmother.
“I’m still waiting.” Noreen drums her fingers on the tabletop. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she never liked me. Maybe she’s trying to get rid of me on purpose.
“You do not have to answer that.” Rosalie covers her mouth full of food with the shield of her hand. Her eyes glower at her grandmother across the table, and she hisses. “Grammy, no.”
But Noreen only has eyes for me.
“I don’t know,” I say, and it’s true. I want kids—but the how many? I figured we’d know when we were done. I’ve never had a set number or plan. But then Rosalie always did, and I do know her answer. “Ahem. Maybe three.”
“Lovely,” Noreen says. “Three is such a happy number. I have three kids.”
Rosalie smiles beside me. “I like the idea of three, too.” She breathes out a quiet cough and swirls her fork in the center of her noodles. “Not that it matters. Just conversation.”
“And where do you hope to live one day, Zevulun?” Noreen asks. “Do you prefer a big city or a small town?”
This time, I do have an answer. Again, I know Rosalie’s. And our answers happen to match. “Some place like Tesoro—close to a big city, not tiny, but not huge either. That’s ideal to me.”
Rosalie’s mouth fights a grin. She takes another bite of food and nods along with my answer.
“Very nice. Rosalie grew up in Southern California. We always liked the smaller towns there, too. Something quaint and sweet about a place that isn’t busting at the seams with people.”
“I agree.”
Rosalie doesn’t say anything. But I know her preferences. I know almost everything about this woman. She always said Reno was too big and Tesoro was just right.
“Disneyland or DisneyWorld?” Again, Rosalie has an opinion on this. It’s possible Grammy is setting me up. She’s assisting, I’m getting the goal. I’ll take it.
“Grammy.” Rose tilts her head and huffs with her gentle scold. “Your food is going to get cold. So will Zev’s. Maybe save one question for after dinner.”
“Dearest, it’s a simple question. My food is fine.”
“Disneyland,” I say—with the correct answer—just before stuffing a bite of Grammy’s spaghetti into my mouth.
It’s good—but it’s different than normal.
And the small difference is making my tongue itch.
I blink up, looking at Noreen. I know her recipe.
I have her recipe… But something isn’t right.
And with the realization, it hits me, not only does my tongue itch—it’s swelling, more and more by the second. “Uh—are there anchovies in this?”
Grammy nods. “I chopped a few into the sauce. I’m trying something new.”
“Huh. I knew something was different,” Rosalie says, taking another bite.
My tongue bulges in my mouth and then my lips begin to get inflamed. Dang.
Rosalie’s head tilts, her eyes narrowed as she looks at me. “Zev?”
My throat constricts like a rope has been tied around my esophagus, and I wheeze out a small cough. “I’m allergic.”
“Oh dear,” Noreen groans, scooting her chair from beneath the table and standing.
“Do you have meds? An EpiPen?” Rose asks.
I don’t. I’ve never needed one. I learned I was allergic after a food sensitivity test, and I’ve just always stayed away. I shake my head.
“Benadryl,” Rosalie says, staring at my face and standing.
Her chair tips back on its side, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She walks over to a skinny cupboard in the kitchen, flinging open the door.
“Grammy, do we have Benadryl?” She yanks one bottle of pills after another from the little cupboard, letting them fall onto the counter.
One splats right into Grammy’s pot of sauce.
But one glance back at me and she’s rifling through the cupboard again.
“I didn’t know. I—” Noreen stammers. “Zev—”
“Iss oka—” I say, but the words don’t come out right. My tongue has doubled in size. I’m sure of it. My mouth, too. I touch a hand to my bottom lip. Oh boy. I must look like they’ve been injected with too much plumping solution.
“Claritin!” Rosalie shouts but drops it to the counter. “Nope, this is not a seasonal allergy.”
“Oh dear.” Noreen’s eyes lock on my face that’s swelling up like a water balloon.
Rosalie spins with Noreen’s fearful tone. The bottle of aspirin slips from her fingers and falls to the ground when she sees me.
Okay—so, it’s bad.
“Come on,” she says, charging toward me. “I’m taking you to the urgent care.”