My throat goes suddenly tight at just how nice it sounds, to have someone who knew Gram in a way that feels new to me and who calls me sweetheart, whose s’s have a slight whistle to them, a sound brushed over with age. A grandparent, though I can’t call him mine.
Paul holds up a piece of paper triumphantly, then hands it over. “Found one.”
Theo rises from his seat and circles the table, sitting next to me. I give him a sidelong glance. “You really want to read this?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s my family, too, right? Might as well.”
Not quite as obsessive as my thought process, but he has a point. This is a tie that binds us, for better or worse.
With a sigh, I return my attention to the paper. But the handwriting stops me short.
I didn’t realize how emotional it would be to see Gram’s writing again. It got spidery in later years, but this is still the hand that wrote her love for me on birthday cards every year, when I got my first period in seventh grade （she got me a cake, too, chocolate with red frosting）， when my tennis team won district champs my junior year. She said it out loud, too, so often I still hear it sometimes when it’s really quiet and very late.
I didn’t keep most of those cards. After she died, we found every one we ever gave her stashed in a series of storage bins. I sped back to my apartment in the city, tore through my room, my roommate hovering in my doorway while I tried to find any cards she’d given me over the years. I finally found a few, and they’re tucked into my nightstand now. But I regret every one I ever discarded thinking I had an infinite supply of them.
This note is a gift for so many reasons, and my blurred gaze moves to Paul. “It doesn’t have to be today, but can I read anything else she wrote you? Her handwriting . . .” I swallow hard. “I miss it, and this makes me feel like I’m getting to know her in a different way.”
It’s too revealing, especially with Theo sitting right next to me, his gaze heavy on my face. But I can’t care about that right now. I want it all.
“Of course,” Paul says gently. “I’ll organize them so you can read them in chronological order for next time. I’d be happy to tell you the story alongside them.”
I give him a watery smile. “That’d be perfect.”
Theo’s knee presses into mine. “C’mon, get reading, Shep. I’m way ahead of you.”
I huff out a breath, blinking away my tears. “It’s not a contest, Spencer.”
“Isn’t it always with us?”
When I look over at him, his expression shifts from something undefinable into a challenging smirk.
“Because you make it that way,” I mutter under my breath, then focus back on the letter.
Paul.
Incredible. Gram could have taught a masterclass on how to infuse deadly disdain into one word.
We’ve been in this class together for two weeks and you’re already a nuisance. I wasn’t sobbing outside, despite how you classified it. I was . . . misty-eyed, but this is how it is when I come back to school after the summer. I can’t wait to get back here, and then I leave and—
I don’t have to explain anything to you. I miss my family, but I’m fine. Two weeks from now, my father will be irritating me with calls and I’ll be glad for the distance, so you’ll never see this again.
A word of advice: if you see a woman who is actually crying, staring at her in bewilderment is a horrible strategy to make her feel better.
Kathleen
“You weren’t kidding about her not liking you at first,” I say with a laugh.
Paul grins, his dimple popping. “And yet, weeks later we were dating.”
“Who could resist that charm of yours?”
He laughs, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m going to take a little rest now, but don’t leave on my account. Teddy has hours of work to do.”
“Great to hear,” Theo says dryly.
My gaze flits to him and then away. “I should probably get back to work . . . ing from home. My work at home.” It takes everything in me not to close my eyes over the mess I just made of that statement. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me today.”
Paul squeezes my hand with a kind smile. I still see so much of Theo in it, though the emotion is completely different. “Feel free to come by this weekend. We’ll dive into those letters.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
Theo rises from his seat. “So, what, is this going to be a regular thing?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure this schedule mix-up is a onetime deal. No more unexpected run-ins.” I wink over at Paul. “Right?”
He puts on a bewildered expression. “I’m still not sure what happened.”
“Mm-hmm.” Theo’s skepticism is clear, but he doesn’t say more. Still, he doesn’t look pleased by the plans Paul and I have just made.
I don’t care if Theo wants to share. I’m going to take every minute Paul will give me. It’s one more minute I have with Gram.
* * *
Despite his apparent allergy to spending time with me （which is returned）， Theo insists on walking me out. It’s not until we step out the front door that I remember the Bronco.
I stop in front of it. “Oh fuck. Is this your car?”
God, I really need to learn to regulate my brain-to-mouth filter.
Theo nods. “That’s Betty.”
“She’s gorgeous,” I sigh, running a finger over the paint, daydreaming about driving her down Highway 1 along the water with my hair flying everywhere, all of my worries and sadness whipping out of my body into the salty air.
“Yeah.” His voice is low and close. I turn my head, and he’s right there, his gaze bouncing to where I’m touching his car.
But I swear it bounced from my face.
I let out a breath, realizing belatedly Theo is still talking.
“。 . . The first thing I bought when we started making money off of Where To Next. Anton and Matias—those are the other founders—” He says this like I don’t know every goddamned thing about his dumb company. “They put down payments on their places in the city, but all I wanted was this car.” He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, running a palm over its side like I imagine he would over a woman’s hip. A craving in the midst of being satisfied. “Took me a few months to track the right one down.”
“This is my dream car, you know.” My tone comes out more accusatory than I want, but when Theo raises an eyebrow, I raise mine right back. I don’t know what it is about him; I want to fight. I want that spike in my blood reminding me I’m capable of emotions that aren’t heavy and flat.
“Was I supposed to avoid it, then?”
“You could’ve gone with something cliché, like a Porsche or a Maserati. A 1970 . . .” I trail off expectantly.
“？’77,” he supplies, amused.
“A 1977 Ford Bronco, perfectly restored in cherry red? Give me a break. That’s so specific.” I squint at him, only half joking. “Did I mention this to you in high school once or something? Is this some twisted gotcha?”
“That would be a long con, considering I had no idea I’d ever see you again when I bought it.”