Page 7 of Fireworks & Forehead Kisses

Wow, could she be any more vague? Actually, this was my grandmother; she absolutely could be.

“What happened to Ellen?”

“Who?” she asked with mock innocence.

“The woman I hired.”

She sat up straighter. “I donotneed a babysitter.”

“Ellen is not a babysitter,” I argued.

“You’re right. She’s a caregiver. A nurse. Do you think I’m an invalid?”

“No. I don’t think you’re an invalid. But I worry about you being out here, on this island, on your own.”

“I’m not on my own. Dorothy and Fred are here.”

“Dorothy and Fred are not here to—” I stopped myself.

She was good. The woman was good. She might be ninety-two, but she was clearly firing on all cylinders and outsmarting me. I nearly slipped and said that they were here if she had any health issues or emergencies, which was what I was afraid of. But if I said that, I would be admitting that she was a caregiver/nurse, which was exactly what she was.

Her stare remained steadfast. The only indication that she knew she had me on the ropes was a slight twitch in the right corner of her mouth. “Not here to what? To watch me? Tobabysitme? To give me care? Go ahead, say it.”

“Gran, you are ninety-two years old. I know that you are still very healthy, and your mind is clearly sharp as a tack, but I worry about you.” I took a deep breath. “What if you fall? What if something happens and I’m not here? I don’t want to relive what happened with my mom.”

I knew that using what happened with my mom was low. But what good was trauma if you couldn’t use it when you needed it?

When my mom passed, I was alone with her and my brother. I was six, and my brother was five. My dad left us for the weekend to go to Atlantic City. My mother was ill. She was battling pneumonia and had a very high fever. I stayed by her side all weekend, changing washcloths on her head and behind her neck, giving her water to keep her fever down and keep her hydrated. But then on Monday, I had to go to school. I got on thebus, and when I got home, she was gone. I couldn’t wake her up. I had to call 911 and wait for the paramedics to come. Gran knew that I still felt responsible for her death. I knew if I hadn’t gone to school, if I’d stayed home and taken care of her, she would still be here.

“Dinner is ready,” Dorothy announced from the doorway.

I stood and held my arm out to Gran. She wrapped her hand around my bicep as she stood. “Fine, hire her back.”

Tomorrow, I’d have to check for bruising on my jaw from how hard it just hit the floor. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d won a battle of wills with my grandmother. She could out-stubborn a mule.

Ellen was in, and Ashley was out. It was a small win, but I’d take it.

3

ASHLEY

“Close your eyes, Lee Lee.”

I shut my lids as Luna, my six-year-old niece, poked my eye with the shadow brush.

Another Friday night at home. Well, actually, I was babysitting at my sister’s home. But since we lived on the same property, it was basically the same thing.

I was getting a makeover. After this, maybe I would be ready to find my Prince Charming. Not that he needed to be a prince or particularly charming. My sister fell in love with a man who half the town is afraid of, not only because he’s built like The Mountain fromGame of Thronesbut also because he grunted more than he spoke actual words. He might be a grunting gladiator, but she was positively over the moon for him, and he worshipped the ground she walked on. Not to mention, Hank should win Best Stepdad of the Year every year for how amazing he was with my niece. So, yeah, charming was not a prerequisite.

At this point, I would settle for a male with a pulse. I didn’t care what package my happily ever after came in…I just wanted to find him.

From my earliest memory, all I ever wanted was to be married. I was a bride every year for Halloween from ages four to twelve. That’s right, eight times I trick-or-treated in a white dress with a veil. The annual costume would have continued if my older sister Skylar hadn’t put a stop to it. She became my legal guardian when I was nine after my parents died. She put the kibosh on my bridal getup after the third Halloween under her parental supervision, claiming it was “unhealthy.” If it weren’t for her nixing, I probably would have continued the bridal tradition well into my teen years, although the costume might have taken a slightly sexier Madonna-Like-A-Virgin turn.

The funny thing was, I never actually cared about having a wedding. I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamed of walking down the aisle and had notebooks of magazine pictures they’d cut out or Pinterest boards of inspiration. All I wanted was a husband. A partner for life. Someone who would always be there for better or worse, through sickness and health, till death do you part. My ride or die. My person. My lobster. My soulmate. My forever. And I wanted to be that person for someone else.

Case in point, growing up, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be, I always said I wanted to be a wife. Which was where the bride costume came into play. One followed the other.

To this day, I’m not sure where my obsession stemmed from. It’s not like my mom made the role appear that glamorous. My dad was a drill sergeant. Not metaphorically. Literally. That was his profession. He was in the Army, and he definitely brought his work home with him. My mom was consumed with making sure he was happy and trying not to upset him. From what I remember, she put all of her energy into him, and there wasn’t really much left over for my sister and me other than just to make sure we didn’t doanythingto upset him.

---