In her latest video, she’s parked in her La-Z-Boy in a pale pink sweater with a faux white collar. For twenty consecutive minutes, she does nothing but knit a pair of socks while listening to Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion, profanity and all. This is the woman who used to make a cross over her chest at the word shit and exclusively listened to Christian music （Amy Grant）。
Ever since she and Martin got together, she’s been living her best life. And despite Mom’s concern, Crystal and I are loving Flo 2.0.
Besides, Grandma Flo is much the same in most ways. She’s still a hoarder, made evident by the box of old TV Guide magazines busting out of the drawer in the entryway table （because you never know when you’ll need a cable schedule from the nineties） and the pile of Oprah magazines on the cusp of toppling over under the living room coffee table. She still attends Sunday and Tuesday sermons and reads her Bible daily. And she’s still an excellent host. When I arrived to pick up some party supplies from her basement, she’d already prepared a cheese and meat plate, a tray of blueberry muffins, and a bowl of hard candies.
I grab the Holy Shit handle when she floors it, reversing out of the driveway in Martin’s massive Lincoln faster than greased lightning, while simultaneously cranking the volume on the Hot 96.9 radio station. No wonder the family has discouraged her as much as possible from driving.
“Did you see my latest ex video?” I ask once we’re safely in our own lane on the road.
She gives me a grave look, nearly missing the stop sign. My head lobs forward when she slams the brake partway through the intersection. “I did. It’s a shame none of them panned out.”
I grit my teeth as we take a sharp corner. I’m half contemplating asking her to stop so I can Uber the rest of the way. “On the plus side, I did come away with a good friend. Remember Daniel?”
“The kid with the bowl cut?”
“Yup. He doesn’t have a bowl cut anymore,” I inform her. “We decided we’re better as friends.”
She eyes me for longer than comfortable before shifting her focus back to the road. “You aren’t as distraught as I assumed you would be.”
“I don’t know. I really hyped myself up for some epic, novel-worthy second-chance romance. But I think I was just trying to play it safe, really. And even the ones who seemed perfect on paper weren’t quite . . . right.”
“Spoken like a woman who knows what right feels like,” she says knowingly, cranking the wheel to take a last-minute left-hand turn.
Trevor’s easy smile invades my mind. I tug on the collar of my knit sweater as the heat gathers to my neck.
We’re silent the rest of the way there. The hospital parking lot is crowded as usual as she careens into a rare open spot. She’s dangerously close to the van next to us, so much so I’ll probably need to exit through the driver’s side. But I don’t complain. It’s truly a miracle we’ve arrived without mowing anyone over.
“I accidently fell for my roommate,” I blurt, unfastening my seat belt. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes, desperate for a few minutes to regroup.
“I know. Your sister told me yesterday during yoga.” Grandma Flo is unperturbed by this revelation.
“Of course she told you,” I grumble, mildly bothered they went to yoga without inviting me （not that I’d go, but an invite would be nice）， but mostly pissed that Crystal had the gall to talk to Grandma Flo about me. “Anyway, so Trevor . . .” I give her all the details of Trevor’s and my relationship over the past four and a half months.
She turns down the radio and listens intently, smiling the entire time. “Isn’t it obvious? He was trying to declare his love for you at the gala. And seeing you on Daniel’s arm last night, on Valentine’s Day of all days, spooked him.”
“But I told him how I felt and he didn’t believe me. I think this is the first time a guy has accused me of not having enough feelings.”
“Maybe he’s projecting because his own feelings scare him,” Grandma Flo posits. “You mentioned he’s experienced a lot of loss, with his parents and his brother. And now with his poor niece’s health complications . . .”
I consider that. “Maybe.”
“Some people struggle with communication. Especially if they’re afraid to get hurt,” Grandma Flo points out, drumming her thin fingers on the steering wheel.
“Still. We’ve only been dating a couple days, and so far it’s just been misunderstanding after misunderstanding with him. And I hate pointless misunderstandings in romance. Why can’t people just have conversations like adults? Lay it all out on the line and avoid the next three hundred pages of turmoil?”
“Then there wouldn’t be a book, would there?” Grandma Flo snorts, tossing me a schooling brow raise. “My dear, you have a lot to learn about relationships if you think all problems can be solved with a single conversation. Give yourself a break. You’re in the beginning of your relationship. You’re two very different people ironing out the kinks.”
“I solve things with conversations,” I point out stubbornly.
“But you’ve never been one to hide your feelings, even as a young girl. Saying what’s on your mind comes naturally to you. But we’re talking about men here. Human beings.” She chuckles, fluffing her curls in the rearview mirror. “Take Marty, for example. He’s about as emotional as they come. But do you really think your grandfather ever told me how he felt at any given time?”
Unlikely. Grandpa Roger was cantankerous as the best of them, always complaining about something, whether it was the weather （too hot or too cold, no in between）， the slow cashier at the pharmacy, Vanna White’s choice of dress on any given episode of Wheel of Fortune. Mom used to say he was unhappy when he didn’t have anything to complain about. He was old-school, upholding antiquated gender norms with his stern rigidity.
“Your grandpa showed his love not through words but through actions,” Grandma Flo explains.
“I remember he always cooked for you and got you flowers from the market on his way home from work.” I smile at the memory of visiting on weekends. There was always a bouquet of fresh flowers proudly displayed in the middle of the dining room table. The note always said the same thing: TO MY DEAREST FLO, in his all-caps block handwriting.
“He did. And he didn’t love me any less. That’s part of what makes a long-term relationship work. Real life isn’t a ninety-minute movie or a three-hundred-page novel. It takes time to truly understand what someone else needs and how the other person communicates their love.” She gives my kneecap another reassuring squeeze.
I crack a smile. Why is she always right? “What would you say to him if you were me?”
She presses her finger to her lips, contemplating. “I’d tell him how much you care for him. Put it all out there.”
“I will,” I say. “I just hope he’ll believe me when I tell him how much I love him.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I still know I’m going to be okay.” It feels so good to say that out loud. I know in my heart it’s true, because every time I’m heartbroken, convinced I’ll never bounce back, I always do.