The Rom Con(91)

It’s a gift, I realize, to be her caretaker, to be living inside this pocket of time with her. Behind every article of clothing, piece of jewelry, faded photograph, and antique knickknack is a story, a memory, a priceless piece of family lore I’d never know otherwise. And as positive as her prognosis is, her stroke’s served as a grim reminder that once Gran is gone, she’s gone—and she’ll take all her memories with her.

Which is why I’m shamelessly mining those memories for my book.

“Okay, so.” I reposition myself on Gran’s bed, crisscrossing my legs beneath me and settling my computer on my lap. She’s propped up against the pillows, Pyewacket dozing in a puffy ball between us, tail occasionally flicking my way as if to remind me who’s really in charge here. “I’m trying to show how my heroine is transforming. She’s grudgingly adapting to her new world and starting to see both the culture and our hero in a new light, but I don’t want her to lose herself in the process. I need to show her personal growth—while keeping her likable, of course.”

Gran quirks a brow.

“Romance readers are much more judgmental about the heroine than the hero,” I explain. “Basically, they’ll excuse any bad behavior from him, but not from her. So she’s allowed to have flaws, but they can’t be too egregious. She can be strong and independent, but not too opinionated, or readers will say she’s obnoxious and unlikable. It’s a whole thing, don’t even get me started.”

“So you’re saying she should be smart and capable, but in a nonthreatening way? Huh. Never heard that one before.” We share a knowing eye roll.

“I guess I just don’t want it to come across like she’s sacrificing her true self for him, you know?” I say, twisting my hair up into a messy bun and sticking a pen through it. “I want the reader to root for her.”

She nods, pondering that as she pets a softly purring Pyewacket. “I think you’re still looking at this the wrong way, like anything you do for a man means you’re losing part of yourself. A big part of relationships is sacrifice, of course, but it doesn’t have to diminish you. For example . . .”

I nod eagerly, fingers poised and ready atop my keyboard, and she smirks.

“For example, I used to touch up my makeup before your grandpa got home from work. I didn’t do it because I was afraid for him to see me without it, or because I thought he wanted me to look a certain way. I did it because I wanted him to know he was the worth the effort.” Her eyes soften, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “And I didn’t view making him dinner as an imposition or an expectation; I did it because I wanted him to be excited to come home to me at night. I wanted him to feel as taken care of as he always made me feel.”

As she recounts the memories, she gets a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, some color returning to her cheeks. “He did things for me, too, of course. He made me coffee every morning. He always let me pick the movie. He even read the books I liked so we could talk about them. If I wanted to leave a party, he’d make himself out to be the antisocial one, or invent some embarrassing story, like he had the runs.” She chuckles to herself, absentmindedly fingering the wedding ring she’s never taken off. “Every Saturday morning, he would run some errand with the boys—getting the car washed, going to the hardware store, whatever—just to give me some quiet time by myself. And they’d always come home with flowers.”

Just watching her reminisce, seeing the joy the memories still bring her, is enough to make my eyes well up. Aw hell, not again. I set my computer aside, leaning over to grab a tissue from the box on her nightstand.

“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, worry bracketing her eyes. I think my parents must have called some secret family meeting about me, because I’ve started to recognize everyone’s identical looks of concern, their unflagging commitment to cheerfulness in my presence. And I get it, I suppose—I’ve been so weepy these past few weeks, I feel permanently waterlogged. I’m a blubbering Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give, only instead of looking out on a stunning Hamptons shoreline, I’m squatting in Gran’s guest bedroom.

“You just lived such an incredible love story,” I say, swiping at my tears. “I feel so far from that.”

She clucks her tongue in dissent. “I don’t think it’s as far away as you think it is.”

I groan through my sniffling. “Oh, come on.”

“What? You told me all the things you did for Jack. You went out of your way to make him feel special, to let him know you were thinking of him. You gave him the emotional support he wasn’t getting from other people in his life. You let your guard down with him in a way you haven’t with anyone else. You even cooked for him and didn’t spontaneously combust!” She pauses. “Well, kinda.”

Even I have to laugh a little at that one.

She finds my hand and squeezes it. “Most of the lies you told were meant to protect him. You made some mistakes, sure, but you had his best interests at heart. I think that’s a relationship to be proud of.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” I say miserably. “That I had a great love story and lost it?”

I flop back on the pillow next to her and heave a watery sigh, staring up at her popcorn ceiling like it’ll have the answers for me. I’m so tired of crying over him—especially since I know he’s not doing the same.