Uncle Rob starts the story about how my grandparents met. And people are still turning to look at us.
Amanda scoots her chair closer to me and squeezes my hand. “Are you okay?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
She scoots even closer and squeezes my hand harder.
Quietly. There’s no scraping of the chair legs on the floor. No grunting from the effort. It’s all subtle motion bringing her closer to me and making my heart pound harder, which is making me sweat more.
I like her.
I’ve always liked her, but this week, I’ve seen how much more there is to like about her.
“If you’d asked my dad seventy years ago what he wanted to do with his life, the answer wouldn’t have beenrun the family fruitcake shop with a girl from the Bronx, but that’s exactly what their love story has been built on,” Uncle Rob says. “Marrying a New Yorker still isn’t something Pops would necessarily recommend for anyone else, but it sure worked out well for him.”
My cheek twitches and my jaw tightens.
Grandma’s from Kansas. She moved to the Bronx when she was eighteen, ran out of money at nineteen, and hopped the wrong busback to Kansas, and Grandpa found her working a makeup counter in a mall in Grand Rapids not long after.
Amanda is more of a New Yorker than Grandma ever was.
That was a dig at us.
I’m positive that was a dig at us.
More people cast glances back at us.
“Pops won the in-law lottery, though,” Uncle Rob says. “Doesn’t happen with everyone.”
Amanda makes a soft noise like that one landed.
Doesn’t help that some people are getting restless, with more of them turning to peer at Amanda and me.
“But we all know wisdom comes with age, not hormones,” Uncle Rob adds with a chuckle.
“Dad, stop,” Esme hisses while a few people chuckle uncomfortably.
“What?” Uncle Rob says. “Pops is six years older than Mom is. And those were different times. He knew what he was getting into far better than a lot of you young people today. Especiallysomeof you. Who should know better. And who should put family first.”
That’s it.
That’s fuckingit.
I jerk to my feet and tug hard on Amanda’s hand. “We’re leaving,” I tell her.
“I’m okay,” she whispers.
“I’m not.”
She doesn’t say another word. Instead, she squeezes my hand impossibly harder—okay, I’m here for you—and trots along a half step behind me as we head to the exit.
It’s not far.
We’re in the back, after all.
“Don’t be rude to your grandparents, Dane,” Uncle Rob says into the mic while more murmurs and whispers erupt around us. “This is their day.”
I don’t answer.
