I look up at Ellie, her eyes softening at the sight of my pitiful self. The pain I feel about this conversation is probably all over my face, because she doesn’t press me any more.
“And I thought Benny was Malcolm’s best friend?” She smirks, changing the subject for me. I hate conflict. Avoid it at all costs. Ellie figured that out early on when she found me pacing in the girls’ bathroom, a cupcake squashed in my fist. Patsy, our old school counselor, was mad at me for bringing vegan cupcakes to her fundraiser bake sale. I was too chicken to defend myself and my efforts, which is not out of character for me. But Ellie savedthe day and bought every last cupcake, taking them to her office. She is a friend above the rest—well…behind Malcolm. But no one compares to him.
“We can let them believe that. Benny is his favoriteguyfriend,” I answer her question. "But we both know I’m Malcolm’sall-timefavorite.” She nods in agreement at this fact, both of us refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
I’m dating again.
Chapter three
Kate
“It’s not high enough.”My grandma—mylola,as she’s referred to in our Filipino culture—is graciously bossing me around as we decorate her house for her party tonight.
“What, do you want it hanging from the ceiling?” I wince and groan, reaching as high as possible, attempting to pin the garland to the wall. My five-foot-two stature is less than ideal for this task, but it still beats her five-foot-nothing with a recent hip replacement. I know if I wasn’t here, she’d be climbing this stepladder, unsupervised.
“I don’t know why Malcolm isn’t here doing this.” Her voice sounds like a pouty teenager as she sits in her rocking chair behind me.
“Because that man has a life outside of putting up with my family.” I push the final pin in the garland and assess my progress. It lookspresentable.“Plus, I think I’m doing a fine job.” My unstable knees pop as I hop off the ladder.
“Oh please, he lives for this stuff.”
“I don’t think Malcolm’s ideal Friday afternoon is decorating for a party for his friend’s grandma.” I roll my eyes and sit onthe squeaky porch swing perpendicular to the house. Tracing the lopsided K carved into the armrest with my finger, nostalgia warms my chest as I swing back and forth, the rusty chains squeaking loudly as I do.
Lola scoffs. “Aye, is that all I am to the boy?” A scowl pinches her eyebrows as she lets out a huff and crosses her arms. Pouty teenager, indeed.
“You know you’re more than that.” The number of times I need to reassure this woman that Malcolm does love her like his own is ridiculous. It’s borderline unhealthy, the obsession she has for the guy. “But he has a life away from here, and I don’t want him to feel obligated to you.”
“Afraid your internet boyfriends won’t like it?” She snuggles deep into her chair, a cocky smirk shining at me as I gape. How dare she.
“First of all, I don’t have internetboyfriends.I’m internet dating—two different things. And secondly, yes. I don’t want any potentials to feel uncomfortable with how close Malcolm is with my family. Is that so wrong?”
I choose to ignore the subtle eye roll she gives me in response and glance around the porch at our decorating job. Red and green garlands hang from one end of the porch to the other, giant bows line the railing of her porch steps, and twinkle lights are hung all over, even covering her multitude of porch plants, the added weight of the bulbs causing them to lean slightly to the left. Poor stems could snap at any second.
My eyes travel up the door frame, noticing the chipped paint that was in the center of the doorlastweek is now smooth and glossy white. Not a chip in sight.
“Your door looks nice.” Suspicion lines my tone as I analyze the paint. Seriously, it looks like a brand-new door.
I’ve had a hunch for a while that Lola has a secret lover or something she’s not telling me about. This theory wouldn’thold up in court, though. I don’t have any concrete evidence, except the random little things around her house getting fixed. The chipped paint on her front door, for starters, is now glossy smooth. Leaky faucet from last week? Not a drop. Creaky step on the deck? Silent. That and the random afternoon phone calls. Either she has someone coming around being…handy. Or she’s been going against doctor’s orders and doing it all herself.
She glances over her shoulder at the door and shrugs, taking a sip of tea. “Your boyfriends will just have to accept that Malcolm isn’t going anywhere, and they’ll have to live with it.”
Choosing to ignore that sentiment, I ask, “How’s the hip?” just as Dolly Parton, my golden retriever, bounds through the open front door and joins me on the swing. We jostle side to side, and the loud chains grind as she nestles her head onto my lap.
“Don’t change the subject,” she argues, steadily rocking back and forth.
My groan sounds more like a whine as I abandon the swing and wander back into the house. If she won’t tell me about her secret handyman boyfriend, I won’t give her the satisfaction of stating the obvious.
I’m painfully aware that my overly attractive, burly best friend could send any possible boyfriend scrambling for his keys. Anytime we’ve gone out, Malcolm was practically a billboard over my head that saiddo not approach. Since I swore off men, it hasn’t been an issue. It actually made those nights more fun by not having to shake off the dogs or hide in the bathroom from the drunk, handsy guys at the bar. But seeing as I want to find someone now, it might be a hindrance. Options have been heavily weighed surrounding this decision. And after the mixer fiasco, the fear of running into him at a speed-dating night had me running for the hills. It’s become clear that I need to set some boundaries. But how can I tell the sweetest man alive, the man who wants nothing more than other people’s happiness, that Idon’t know if he should be around as much? And what will my family say? They like him more than they like me most of the time.
“Have you talked to your mama?” Lola yells at me through her screen door, the rise in octave accentuating her Filipino accent.
“Not since Thanksgiving.” Reality has the power to burn my tongue when I say it out loud. “You?” I call back to her.
A screech of the rocking chair is followed by the shuffling of slippers before Lola joins me in the kitchen. “No. Not even for Christmas.” The sadness in her voice is heavy. Reality also has the power to break my lola’s heart.
“Aye, I’m sorry, Lola.” I wrap her in a hug. We don’t talk about my parents often. We don’t acknowledge the hard truth that my mom is so caught up in her own life that she seems to forget aboutus—her mother and only child. And don’t even get me started on my dad. He’s just a cowardly man who follows my mom around like a lost puppy. All her business trips, self-reflection retreats, even the personal-developmentseminars—most associated with one pyramid scheme or another—my dad tags along without question, even if it means missing the holidays. In the past eight years, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my parents, but I can’t put a value on the number of times I’ve wished it was different.
My grandma releases me and rests her hands on my cheeks. “I'm sorry too.” Her eyes are misty, squinting upward when she smiles at me. The lines of her face, a map of a life well lived, deepen. I can really see her age now, especially since her most recent hospital stay. She was always the energetic and spunky one. A bright, sparkling light in the world. My grandpa was the quiet one, beaming at her like she was his own personal shooting star, granting his wishes. Lola, being the star she is, decided to audition for the local Christmas play, breaking her hip during her reindeer solo. She ended up being on bedrest fortwo months, forcing her to change her lifestyle. Lola had to give up some of her hobbies—you know, the ones that require your arms and legs flailing about. Ever since, that sparkle of hers has started to dull bit by bit.
