“You have to say that. You’re related to me.”
She twists, moving until we’re face to face. I look up into eyes the exact shade of my own, a basic brown, yet somehow deep, caring, crinkled with concern and a touch of mischief. She holds my cheeks between her hands.
“I do not have to say that. My daughter was a twit. You are a good man.”
I blink away tears. “Thank you.”
Gran slinks back to her seat before I melt down further. She knows I don’t like getting emotional with her. I’ve had years of that. We don’t need to constantly rehash it.
“Now, tell me everything about her and when you’re seeing her next.”
I let down my defences and dive into how far I’ve fallen over the last week. I know I’m in deep when the words willingly come out and my grandma sits in her designated chair at her kitchen table positively beaming. By the time our plates are empty and we’ve eaten slices of homemade pound cake for dessert, I’ve decided to channel these feelings.
Fuck it all. I’m writing this woman a love note.
Chapter Nine
Adelaide
Istay at the café long after Zander leaves. In some manic bout of inspiration, I find myself scribbling pages upon pages in my bright pink notebook. I don’t have all the research together for book four—I cannot tell you how hard it’s been to dive into everything Camp X when the mission itself was hidden from the public—but as of right now, I do have the romantic plotline.
On my way home, I stop by The Dam Drunkard and grab a personal pan pizza. I add it to my food haul; the two remaining pastries Zander and I didn’t finish at the café. All I want to do is go home and type my notes into my laptop, then maybe get some more words in. My brain is overloaded in lusty feelings so I know I can get a good romantic scene on paper.
This is further solidified when I get to my front door and find an envelope tucked under the cork doormat I painted with multi-coloured daisies. I bite back a smile as I pick it up, recognizing Zander’s messy printing from when he signed my book last week. Wanting this moment for myself, I shuffle over to the white iron bench on my porch, place my food boxes down,and flatten my skirt as I sit. I run a finger along the seam and slip a piece of Peggy Browning’s stationery out of the envelope. A giggle escapes me at the cute vines of ivy bordering the paper. I hold it out and squint like an old lady so I can actually read it without digging in my tote for my glasses.
Silly Goose,it reads.
I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking about you and I needed you to know you’re on my mind. I know it’s been brief. I understand you may not feel the same. I just wanted you to know I think you’re the ray of sunshine I need in my life. I won’t ask you to check yes or no, but Lucy and I would love to have a date with you at your earliest convenience. Message me when you get this, so long as I haven’t scared you off.
Zander
I find myself grinning at the paper. No one has ever written me a love letter. Or alikeletter, I guess. I laugh as I note the postscript.
P.S. I’m not a stalker. Gran told me the big yellow house is yours. Hope it is. Disregard this weird letter if someone other than Adelaide lives here.
I fish around in my tote that readsBuy Me Books and Tell Me I’m Prettyuntil my fingers land on my phone. The muscle memory from the past week takes over as I scroll to Zander’s contact.
Adelaide
Idk, I think you might be a stalker
I see the three dots of his impending response, but my front door opens before it comes in. My phone’s screen goes dark and I shove it into my tote. Willow steps onto the porch. She glances down at the mat, then over to me. I stand.
“Were you expecting something?”
“Yeah, you,” Willow says and slinks back into my house.
I debate staying on the porch and avoiding whatever terrible mood she’s in today, but as a mosquito bites at my ankle, I decide I’ll have to grin and bear it. I’ve changed a lot about this house; made it my own. But the one thing I will never touch is the stained glass in my front door. It’s nothing special, just pastel geometric shapes instead of a plain, frosted window, both on the door and framing the door. It’s welcomed me home every day since I was a child. And it’s welcoming me home now as I step into uncertainty.
I sigh as I drop my keys into the bowl next to the front door. Stepping into my front foyer is like stepping into a little piece of my mind. Or, at least, what I try to project as my inner world. It’s bright and colourful, full of patterns and flowers and pieces of art I’ve created with my own two hands. It makes me happy and that’s all that matters. Willow, however, is offended by everything I change within these walls. The days of the house being beige and boring are days I will never go back to.
Willow waits for me in the kitchen. I place my pizza down on the counter, then duck into my photo-covered fridge to give my pastries a home. When I turn around, she’s inspecting my pizza. She scoffs and drops the lid, leaving it ajar. It’s a basic pepperoni pizza, albeit pretty greasy and with stuffed crust, but there’s no need to insult it.
“Did you need something from me?” I ask, sliding a piece out of the box.
She licks her lips and pauses, as though she has terrible news she simply can’t bear. I fold my pizza and tip it into my mouth, holding a hand underneath my chin to catch any mess. And still, she says nothing, just studies me.
“Okay, don’t hate me,” she says.
