Page 66 of Resisting the Grump

“Do you miss him?”

My lips fell apart.

“Because it’s Sunday morning and you’re here, having breakfast with me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased as punch to have you. I always am. You know that. But are you missing him?”

I wasn't ready to acknowledge the answer to that question. “He doesn’t smell as good as your chocolate chip pancakes, if that’s what you’re asking.” Though I’d probably drizzle syrup on him given the chance.

“What happens if you forgive him?”

“I keep seeing him until he hurts me again because that’s what people prone to jerk flu do.”

“And if you don’t forgive him?” she asked, as my dad returned and slipped into his seat at the head of the table.

“Bitterness will eventually turn my insides black.”

“Did I come at a bad time?” my dad asked.

My mom handed him a plate. “Dodging bullets won’t make you as bitter as being with the wrong person.”

“You’re not old enough to date anyway,” my dad said, sliding two pancakes onto his plate before grabbing the low cholesterol butter spread from the middle of the table. “And if you insist on going out with someone, he has to pass the shotgun test.”

My mom threw her blue eyes towards the sky at my dad’s predictability. He was borderline obsessed with reminding us he had a shotgun every time my love life—or lack thereof—came up in conversation. To my knowledge, he didn’t have any ammunition and had never actually fired the thing. But boys and their toys, I suppose.

I thought of Oliver’s ridiculous cat tree. It must’ve cost a thousand bucks. For a stray who probably would’ve been grateful for a box with a blanket in it. Was he actually a big softie? Was I throwing the big baby out with the bathwater? Was I looking for reasons to forgive him? Should I be?

“If he can run the length of the driveway without getting shot,” my dad explained, “then he can take you out.”

My mom and I cocked our heads at him before she said what I was thinking. “And if he can’t, we can take you to prison?”

“I still have some kinks to work out with the shotgun test.” He pointed his fork at me. “But I want you to know I have your back.”

Nothing made me want to change the subject like the thought of my dad wielding a shotgun. “These pancakes are delicious, Mom.”

She smiled. “There’s only one test he has to pass, Avery.”

I raised my brows. “What’s that?”

“Whether or not he tries to win you back.”

“What did I miss?” my dad asked, getting annoyed.

“Shhh,” my mom said, swatting the air between them. “If he tries to get back in your good graces after screwing up, take that as a good sign.”

I slid another pancake from the dwindling stack. “Why?”

“Because that’s the secret,” she said. “To a long, healthy relationship.”

“Go on,” I said, forgetting my pancakes for a moment.

“There are no perfect people, which means there are no perfect relationships. So you can’t win someone over once and think your work is done. Because you’re both going to screw up sometimes. So you have to get good at showing the other person you haven’t forgotten they’re a prize worth winning all over again, no matter how many times and ways you’ve wooed them in the past.”

“A prize worth winning,” I repeated, not sure what to make of her advice. That said, my parents’ unicorn marriage suddenly made a lot more sense.

“That’s right,” she said, her eyes softening. “So if your twinkie doesn’t try to win you back, trust that you dodged a bullet. Because the last thing a strong woman needs is a man who lacks stamina and the good sense to admit when he’s sorry.”

“Speaking of prizes,” my dad asked, “did you try your mom’s raspberry lemonade yet?”

T H I R T YT W O

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