“Recognize anyone in this photo?”
“That’s my grandfather,” he says, pointing to a younger Preston. “And I assume that’s my grandma.” He points to the woman he’s holding.
“No. That’s not your grandma.”
“It’s not?”
“But that,” I say, pointing to the woman standing alone beside them a few feet away. “That’s your grandma.”
“Oh, yeah. Totally. It is.” He looks again and laughs. “So what’s going on?”
“Look at the woman your grandfather has his arm around. Do you recognize her?”
“I hate to tell you this, but I’m not a time traveler, and I don’t know my grandparents' friends when they were younger. So, no?—”
“Look at the photo again. Look what she’s wearing.”
“That’s a cute dress, I suppose.”
“Look at her face.”
I’m going to need you to give me more than this, Gina, because?—”
“Look at her earrings.”
He stares at the earrings and shrugs. “She’s wearing dangly pineapple earrings.”
“Okay. Who wears crazy-ass earrings like that all the time?”
He stares at me. “Is this something I am…?” He pauses. “Wait. Amethyst,” he says. “I always notice that she’s got some crazy-ass earrings.” He frowns. “Wait—that’s Amethyst.”
“I’m almost confident that’s Amethyst,” I say, looking at him. “And look how she’s standing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s beaming. She’s standing there beaming, and your grandfather’s arm is around her. And you thought that was your grandma. You thought it was your grandma because of their body language, right?”
“They look like they’re together. Let me see that again,” he says, grabbing the photo from my hand. He stares at it and nods slowly. “So, wait. Amethyst and my grandfather used to date?”
“I think so. I think they used to be together. Now, I think it’s possible that your grandma stole Preston from Amethyst. And that would account for the reason why there’s this weird coldness between them. And that would account for her dreams.”
“Oh, what are you talking about? What dreams?”
“She’s always going on about how Shakespeare comes to her in her dreams. And I thought she was just, like, loony or crazy, right? Like she was clairvoyant or something. But then I thought about it. What if Shakespeare is not Shakespeare? What if it’s your granddad? Your granddad loves Shakespeare. He’s always quoting him. Everyone goes on about how much she loves Shakespeare. Maybe she thinks of your granddad as Shakespeare. Maybe that’s her nickname for him. Maybe she dreams of him. Maybe she wishes that she were still with him. That he had chosen her.”
“Maybe—shit,” he says. “I knew it wasn’t about the theater.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember the other day, I went into the study, and they were arguing? And Granddad said she wanted a donation to the theater, and he didn’t want to give it to her. And she was upset. I didn’t understand, because fifty grand is nothing for a Waverly. We give more than that without a blink of an eye. But it makes sense. What if they weren’t arguing about a donation? What if it was something else?”
“Holy shit. Do you think they’re still?—”
“No, they’re not still dating. They couldn’t be. At least, I don’t think so. My grandma wouldn’t put up with that,” he says. “But maybe there’s not really been closure there.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking that must be the case. If she was dating your granddad, and he left her for someone else—which is horrible—why would she even still be here?”
“That doesn’t make sense to me either. Why would she still be here?”
