She won’t hear it from me!I type.Well, not the grandma part. I’ve told your mom before and I’ll tell her again, she’s the coolest.
Eh, his text says.She’s all right.
I roll my eyes. Alex’s mom has him wrapped around her finger.Clearly, I type.“All right” is a solid basis for your delusional “party animal grandma” concept.
Fine, my mom’s cool, he says,but I’m telling you, even boring moms turn into party animal grandmas.
I try to picture my mother, the serious, self-disciplined retired teacher who still goes to bed at nine and wakes up at the butt crack of dawn every morning, ever becoming a party animal.
I can’t see it, I type.
Ted, grandmas are liberated women. They finally don’t have to give a shit about everything they had to for the past thirty years. Find me a grandma who isn’t living her best nightlife, now that she finally has that time to herself. No kids to put to sleep, no teenagers out worryingly late, no one’s laundry to do, no meals to plan.
No grandpas to entertain, I add.Since they went to bed hours ago.
Exactly!he says.Which is why I call Mia’s days with Jen my granny time.
A laugh jumps out of me.Look at you, a liberated woman!
I’d be able to enjoy it more, he says,if the Buccos weren’t getting their asses kicked and I could figure out today’s Wordle.
To your credit, I tell him,today’s Wordle was hard.
Ted!he says.NO hints.
My smile squishes my cheeks up to my eyes. It’s the blessing and the curse of my friendship with Alex. It’s so easy talking like this. And it makes it that much harder when I need to talk to him about something that isn’t.
Hey, I write.
I take a deep breath, rubbing where worry sits heavy in my chest. I want to talk to him about this. I want to know if he’s okay, and if he’s not, what I can do. But I can’t text about it.
I type, then hit send before I chicken out,Tomorrow is our friendiversary.
The text shows as read. An ellipsis appears, telling me he’s typing. It disappears. Appears again.
I push through the anxiety squeezing my insides and type, then hit send.How do you feel about grabbing our traditional celebratory gelato a night early?
Another ellipsis. Finally, my phone buzzes with his text.
Luna’s is closed.
My heart plummets. Alex’s family owns Luna’s, and since becoming friends, the past two summers we’ve snuck in after-hours countless times for late-night gelato. This summer, we haven’t, and I don’t know why.
My phone buzzes again with another text from him. This time, when I read it, my heart soars right up to my throat.
Luckily, he says,I’ve got a key to a restaurant that stocks their gelato. Tell me when to pick you up.
I spring up in bed, tripping on the sheets as I climb out while typing,I can be ready in 5!
My phone buzzes with his response.
No rush on my end, gramps. This granny’s got all night.
I should have pushed back on Alex’s counteroffer to stop by his restaurant. But I didn’t feel like I had the leverage. Now I barely feel like I have a grip on anything.
Alex stands at one of the professional cooking ranges, backward ballcap on, apron strings tied tight, flipping a pan as heat dances beneath it.A quick late-night bite, he explained when we got here, and I swear it’s because somehow he’d sensed I hadn’t eaten more than peanut butter crackers for dinner. I was too worked up to try to cook something for myself from my small repertoire.
Now I’m biting my lip as I sit on a stool nearby, trying not to implode from lust as I watch him work.
