It’s a simple cycle. I’ll meet someone I’m interested in. We go out a few times, then everything changes once they know about my past. A past I’m not shy about; wrote a memoir detailing; have been invited to do more talks about than any of my fictional books. But it always gets in the way.
“Zander, honey, how are you telling this story? I feel like you should have a better grasp on this several books in. I know you’re down on yourself, but at some point you have to let the guilt go. They’ve already forgiven you.”
I swirl my fork around in my potatoes. Gran continues her reassurances and I want to believe her, but my brain also shuts down like a petulant child whenever she starts talking about this. I’m aware it’s not a healthy response. It’s something my therapist has advised me against hundreds of times. Yet I still fall into seven distinct circles of hell.
“Gran,” I say with a sigh, at the exact moment Lucy whines from under Gran’s circular kitchen table. I glance down, her face resting against the forest green wooden table leg. She licks my pant leg. “Can we talk about something else?”
“I’m not dropping it. Who’s the girl?”
“Doesn’t Maeve know already?”
“Yes, and she’s not impressed.”
“She’s not impressed by Adelaide?”
I’m so baffled by this statement—because how could you not be enchanted by Adelaide?—that I don’t realize I’ve walked right into her trap. I grimace as she grins. My gaze drops back to my plate. I pretend to study the vines and tropical fruit around the edge of Gran’s fine China.
“Adelaide Ramsay,” Gran says. “I like her.”
“You know her?”
“I think everyone does in town. She’s a big deal. Everyone’s famous for something in a small town.” I snort. If anyone knows that, it’s me. “If she hadn’t published some books and become even more of a Beaver Creek darling, we all would have known her for her family’s old house and how her mom left.”
I lick my lips and taste garlic from Gran’s roasted chicken. I don’t know if it’s my place to ask about Adelaide’s past without her in the room. I’m sure the rumours about me are flying around town. Frankly, I’m shocked she’s still texting me. I’vebeenshocked since she responded to my first message.
I ask what I think is the more innocent of the two questions.
“Her house is famous?”
“Small town famous, yes,” Gran says with a shrug. “Her mother was part of the Castor lineage. You know they founded the town, right? The house that Adelaide inherited is one of the oldest in town. Have you seen it?”
I try not to react to this thinly veiled question, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck. The implication makes my throat dry. I run a hand along the hair at my nape.
“Uh, no, I don’t know where she lives.”
“It’s the big yellow house. You’ll know it when you see it.” Her fork scratches along her plate. She’s eaten fast while I remain in shock. I shove a vinaigrette-drenched leaf into my mouth. “I think you’ll like it there.”
I chuckle. “Gran, I’m not moving in.”
“Not yet, no. But you like her don’t you?”
“Well,” I say. I don’t know what else to say. My eyes search for something in the room to redirect the conversation. The vase patterned with blue houses in the centre of the table, a framed photo of my grandfather on the wallpapered wall, the cabinet lined with crystal, wedding China, and Royal Daulton figurines. I’ve got nothing. “Well, yeah, okay. I do.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Gran says and is instantly on her feet. She books it to me with superhuman speed and I barely have enough time to push away from the table. She wraps her arms around me from behind. “I am so happy for you.”
I rest my hands on top of hers. “It’s nothing right now, Gran. Don’t get too invested yet.”
“Zander, the fact that I could get anything out of you about this woman means it issomething.”
I swallow. She’s not wrong. I don’t talk about the more personal parts of my life with her. I know she worries about me being lonely because of this. I’d never tell her that aside from two gym-based friends in Guelph, the pen pal I’ve had since I was twenty-one, and, maybe, my agent, I am a bit lonely. A self-imposed kind of lonely because I’ve never believed I deserve long-term relationships of any kind, and my track record hasn’t been kind in dispelling this belief.
“I like her. She’s . . . She’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant. Hmmm.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “You have a crush. And you couldn’t have picked a better woman. You’re right. She is brilliant. She’s always the brightest one at embroidery club. I haven’t heard anyone ever say anything bad about her. If ever you wanted anyone’s acceptance in this town, it’s hers. She’s special. If she likes you, it means she sees something good in you.”
“My fear is she won’t see that for very long.”
“You’re not a bad man.”
