Page 25 of Set on You

“I accept your apology. Happy?” I say robotically, purely to get him off my back. I have more important shit to do today than stand here and argue with him.

He blinks down at me. “Really? Because you’re looking at me like you want to castrate me with a butter knife.”

“Maybe you deserve harsh punishment.” I let those words linger a few moments before he swallows, as if fearing for his life. “And just because I might accept your apology doesn’t mean your girlfriend should,” I add.

He sighs, averting his gaze to the ceiling, as if praying to the gods above for assistance. “I don’t know how to prove to you I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I shrug, giving him nothing as another gym patron impatiently walks around us, shooting us a cross-eyed glare as if we’ve single-handedly inconvenienced his day. We inch to the left so we’re no longer blocking the entire entrance.

Scott runs his hand across the back of his neck. “Look, why don’t you just ask Flo? I told my grandpa about my breakup last night. I wouldn’t lie to him.”

I give him a bored stare before turning for the exit. “Maybe I will.”

•••

GRANDMA FLO HASalways been a hoarder. She isn’t as extreme as some of those people on that TLC show with rotting garbage and dead cat carcasses among stacks of newspapers from 1978, but it’s still worth an intervention.

There are at least fifty editions ofOprahmagazine under her side table, along with endless baskets overflowing with yarns of all colors and itchy-looking textures. She also has an expansive collection of those creepy Precious Moments figurines adorning the mantel above the fireplace. I stare down a particularly demonic-looking one masquerading as a delicate ballerina as I wait for her to bring me tea. It sits next to a dusty framed photo of Mom and Uncle Bill in their youth, botched haircuts and all.

There’s a smaller picture frame to the left that houses my and Tara’s wallet-size school portraits, side by side. Tara is twelve and is the spitting image of Dad, only with a delightful toothy grin andthick, sideswept bangs. Meanwhile I’m at peak awkward stage at ten, mid-blink, sporting thrice-layered assorted-color tank tops from Hollister.When asked why in God’s name she’d display this photo of me, of all photos, her response is always something to the effect of “It captures your essence,” and I’m left to question my entire life.

“Be careful, it’s piping hot.” She sets the mug over the coaster on the coffee table, littered with Joann Fabrics coupons.

“Thanks, Grandma.” The floral couch squeaks as I lean forward to take the steaming mug. “So how are the wedding preparations coming along?”

She settles into her La-Z-Boy, crochet slippers pointed to the ceiling. “Most of the big details are already set. Tara is organized as all get-out. There are just some small things, like the centerpieces, that need sorting.”

I give her an uncomfortable nod after blowing on the scorching tea. Aside from clearing up the Scott conversation, I’m desperate to ask whether she and Martin were together before Grandpa died. But there is no tactful way to go about it.

“I’m surprised you decided to go for such a big wedding,” I say instead.

She shrugs, tugging at her blouse. “Grandpa and I never really had a wedding. He didn’t care about the glitz and the glam. You know how he was. Wasn’t much for being the center of attention.” She’s right. Grandpa didn’t even like being photographed, let alone having an entire day all about him. “So anyway, when it came to a wedding, he decided it would be better if we just put the money toward a house. So that’s what we did.”

“Were you okay with that?”

“I kind of had to be. It was his money,” she says matter-of-factly. She likes to remind me of the old-school ways. As if it’s the way things should be.

Grandma was a stay-at-home mom, while Grandpa worked in the financial district, controlling the funds exclusively. Grandma didn’t even own a purse until he passed away.

“So does Martin want a grand wedding too?”

“He didn’t have much of a first wedding either. He and Sheila eloped. In Vegas, if you can imagine. I suppose we both wanted it. And it helps Tara out so she doesn’t have to lose her deposits.” Her voice trails as she absentmindedly fidgets with the hem of her blouse. “Do you think it’s crazy? Me getting married at seventy-seven?”

When she puts it that way, it’s hard to say no. Despite my suspicions about the overlap between Martin and Grandpa, it suddenly seems wrong to call her out on it. Realistically, I want her to be happy and guilt-free, regardless of the past.

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No. I think it’s great. Are you guys going to move in together?”

“Eventually. But we’re having a heck of a time deciding on where. I don’t want to move out of this house, and the stubborn man doesn’t want to move from his. He suggested downsizing, but...” She casts a sad gaze around her cluttered living room. “I just don’t know about that.”

I cringe at the inevitable task of sorting through all of this junk. God knows what creatures we’ll unearth. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out before the wedding. There’s no rush.”

“So,” she says, taking a sip of her own tea, eyes glinting. “What did you think of Scotty?”

My shoulders fall with relief. I’m thankful I didn’t have to bring it up. “I actually wanted to talk to you about him. But first, I wanted to apologize for leaving your dinner so early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

She nods, as if she already knew. “No sweat, dear.”

There’s a pregnant pause before I come out with it. “Does Scott have a girlfriend?”

---