Page 92 of Perfectly Grumpy

Her smile widens before she tucks her head against my shoulder. I rest my chin against her hair, breathing in the scent that’s become all too familiar this week. I want her to feel safe, even though I know she’s perfectly capable of handling Bart herself. And I wonder, if this was only pretend, would she let me hold her like this? Would she smile at me like she did just now?

Because the way she fits against me, how she’s letting her guard down just enough to let me really see her—I’m starting to wonder what she’s doing to me. I’m always the one who’s thinking things through, but for the first time, I don’t want to be logical. I want to be reckless. I want to risk something without knowing the outcome.

That thought alone should trigger every self-preservation instinct I have.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about love, it’s that there are no guarantees it will last. After thirty years of marriage, my parents are separating, leaving me to question whether falling in love with someone is really worth it. Why risk getting your heart broken if all you end up is alone?

I learned what heartbreak was like in college first—with Lydia, the English major who loved poetry and spontaneous road trips. For three years, I thought we were building something real. I’d helped her study for finals, held her hand through her father’s heart surgery, even planned our future down to which city offered the best teaching positions for her and minor league teams for me.

Then one month before graduation, she sat me down with a handwritten note—five pages, front and back—detailing all the ways I’d “failed” her. My logical approach to problems made me “emotionally unavailable.” My structured routines were “boring.” My hockey schedule meant I was too “absent” from her life to be spontaneous. She’d found someone else, an art student who “made her feel alive again.” The guy who painted her portrait instead of helping her budget for rent or plan her future.

The worst part? I didn’t see it coming. Mr. Analytical missed every sign. And when she walked away, she took more than my pride. She took my certainty that I could trust my own judgment. That night, I promised myself I’d never let someone get close enough to catalog my flaws again. Because apparently, loving someone the only way I knew how—steadily, reliably, completely—wasn’t enough.

The song shifts to something slower, and Lauren adjusts her arms around my neck, her fingers playing with the hair at my nape. The touch is so natural—like we’ve been doing this for years instead of days. It’s this easy intimacy that scares me the most, how quickly she’s slipped past my defenses.

As we move together, I notice her gaze drifting toward her father and Patty, who are swaying together near the punch bowl. “You know, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel seeing Dad with someone new this week. Part of me was angry that he could move on when Mom’s only been gone less than a year. But then I realized everyone deserves someone who makes the hard parts of life easier.” Her gaze holds mine. Then she stops swaying. “I’ve always had to be the strong one in the family. Even after Mom’s death. It’s so nice to have someone I can finally share things with.”

My stomach twists. I want to share everything with her too, and yet I haven’t even told her I’m working on a book. Or how I feel about her.

That’s when I make a silent promise: If this thing between us is still here when the reunion ends—if what I’m feeling isn’t just the product of sharing a cabin and playing a part—then I’ll tell her. Even if I can't calculate the outcome.

We spend the next hour dancing, and when we’re not on the dance floor, she’s glued to my side, my arm draped protectively around her waist to send a clear signal to Bart. When the last song of the night plays, I pull her even closer, my hands memorizing the way it feels to hold her this way, to remember this night forever.

She’s quiet on the walk back to the cabin, both of us taking our time. Above the trees, the sky opens up, scattering stars across midnight blue, while a sliver of moon casts just enough light for our path.

“Tonight was the best prom I’ve ever had,” I say.

She looks over at me, a smile playing on her lips. “Really? With the way my aunts couldn’t stop gushing about you in that suit?”

“Really,” I answer, shoving my hands in my pockets. “To be fair, I never actually went to prom.”

“Wait,” she says incredulously. “You”—she grabs the lapels of my suit coat—“You…Mr. Hockey Stud, never went to prom?”

I shake my head. “Are you surprised?”

She lets me go. “I’m shocked. How could you not tell me this? I would’ve bought you a boutonniere. Even taken a cheesy picture in front of the Williamson prom sign.”

“Lauren, you know I hate pictures. And I wasn’t the popular guy in high school—I was a nerd and a late bloomer. I spent my weekends playing hockey or studying. High school girls were always into the football and basketball players, not guys like me. Besides, I was too nervous to ask anyone, because if you didn’t notice tonight, I’m a terrible dancer.”

She scoffs. “You aren’t the worst I’ve ever danced with.”

“Thank…you?” I say with a half laugh.

“Okay, you stepped on my feet a few times, but when we did the chicken dance with the kids, you wereall in. It takes a brave man to flap their arms like a bird and not care if people question his masculinity.”

“That’s becauseeverybodylooks ridiculous doing the chicken dance,” I say.

“Still, I wish I had known,” she says, like discovering this after the fact violated some unwritten rule between us.

I stop and turn to her, trying to understand what’s bothering her. “Lauren, what difference would it have made? Tonight was perfect. And yes, the look on Bart’s face when you chose me was definitely a bonus.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“I could’ve made it special for you.”

“Lauren, you did make it special. Just by being with me.”

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