“Probably my drawings from when I was a kid. Bless Grandma for keeping those. God, this is the pinkest salmon I’ve ever seen.”
There’s an intriguing dark blue box with gold lettering on it right at the back of the cupboard. But it’s out of reach, and I can’t read what the writing says from here.
“Can you pass me some sort of a utensil with a long handle?”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know, thought I’d whip up a cake while I’m up here.”
I can almost hear her eyes roll. Then her voice suddenly comes from somewhere near my waist. “Here you go.”
I pull my head out of the cupboard to see her offering me a soup ladle.
“Thanks. There’s something at the back.” I scoop the cup of the ladle around the side of the box and pull it toward me. “This looks promising.”
The lettering is just visible enough through the thick dust for me to read it out. “Patrick Byrne and Lorna Ferguson. February 14th, 1965.”
Summer takes it from me, wipes it with her hand, and gasps. “I can’t cry again. I can’t keep crying. Honestly, I hardly ever cry at all. But, since you’ve been here, I cry all the time.”
I step down and wipe my hands on my jeans. “What is it?”
She lifts the lid and shows me two champagne glasses nestled in pink satin. “They were my grandparents'. From their wedding."
“They got married on Valentine’s Day?”
She nods and runs her fingers over the glasses.
“So that’s tomorrow. Same day as my aunt and uncle’s wedding anniversary.”
Also the day I’ll drive away from Summer and she’ll disappear from my life forever.
“It’s probably a popular day for weddings.” She heads back toward the kitchen. “So not that much of a coincidence.”
“Yeah.” I kick the steps to fold them up. “And such a cliché. Valentine’s is the most ridiculous day of the year. No one in their right mind would choose to get married that day.”
I turn toward the kitchen and she’s standing there staring at me. “It’s all well and good being cynical and unromantic and not believing in real love or…” She waves her hand dismissively, “Whatever it is you do or don’t believe in. But it’s pretty fucking horrible to say something like that about my dead grandparents.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
Shit.
That was absolutely not what I meant.
But I guess it might have been what I said.
“Yes, you did.” She plants her hands on her hips. “You meant your aunt and uncle and my grandparents are four loser romantics who knew no better. They thought they were in love, but they can’t have been, because love doesn’t exist, so they’re being ridiculous. And their choice of wedding date wasn’t cool enough for you.” She makes a sarcastic peace sign, half closes her eyes, and sways her head from side to side.
“But in fact, Owen, the four of them prove you wrong, don’t they?”
I step toward her, but she thrusts her palm forward to stop me.
“The fact your aunt and uncle are celebrating thirty-whatever years of marriage, and the fact Grandpa couldn’t even go on living without Grandma, are proof it is possible for two people to be deeply in love with each other. And for it to last.”
She stares at me for a second, and even from this distance I can tell her eyes are welling up.
She presses a hand over her heart. “How could you say that about my grandparents?” Her tone’s shifted from anger to hurt.“You are precisely the cynical, insensitive asshole I thought you’d be, aren't you?”
She bites into her top lip for a moment before speaking again. “You must be thrilled your aunt and uncle’s party has turned into a business opportunity for you, or you might have had to find a way to try to look happy for them.”
