Page 5 of Where Happiness Begins
I roll my eyes. “Really, Nan,” I say instead of trying to lie once more. “I’m good for now.”
Ever since my ex dumped me two years ago, she hasn’t stopped trying to find a man for me, sending me unwanted propositions left and right. I’m sure the men she mentions don’t even know she does it. The second she finds someone who’s more or less my age, she throws them my way.
She’s trying for nothing. The way I felt when I was with Greg is something I never want to experience again.
Nana sighs dramatically, her kitchen fan humming in the back. “I’m just worried about you. You don’t live enough, darling.”
My cookie cutter stalls mid-air. “I do live.” My voice sounds defensive even to my ears.
“When I was your age, I’d go dancing, and partying with friends, and meeting handsome strangers. That’s what being twenty-four is about.”
I’m sure she’s exaggerating some of it—if I remember correctly, she was already married at that age—but even so, I hate to admit she has a point. I’d promised myself when I was younger that onceI had my kidney transplant, I’d start doing all the things I’d always pushed away, and yet I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.
But a man sure as heck won’t solve that.
“I’m still not interested in your blind date at the senior center, but thanks for the thought.”
She chuckles. “One day, you’ll say yes.”
Sure.
“Otherwise, what else is new?” she asks.
I don’t even consider telling her about yesterday’s email. That woman has suffered through so much in her life, from the rheumatoid arthritis that causes her daily pain, to the death of her husband when they were in their sixties, and then to the loss of her son two years ago. The last thing she needs is to hear about my own worries.
“Not much. You?”
It’s as if she was waiting for the question. The second I finish, she goes on to tell me all the new Bellevue Center gossip, and while I try to stay focused, my gaze drifts to the stack of medical bills I opened this morning, still lying on the kitchen counter. I might have decided to stop worrying about my debts, but that doesn’t mean I can forget about them entirely.
I’ll never ask Nana for money, that’s for sure. She’s offered to help me before, but the truth is, she needs her savings to pay for her residence. I look around at the kitchen and the living room past it. If push comes to shove, I’ll just have to sell the place.
I inherited the house when I lost my dad. It’s not much, a simple seventies bungalow with a carport outside and linoleum floors in the kitchen, but it’s the place I love most in this world. I’ve knownfor a while I should consider getting rid of it. I don’t need all this space when it’s just me here, and in the grand Boston area, it could cover my bills for a few more years, at least until I find a job with health insurance.
But this is the place where I grew up. The backdrop of some of my happiest memories, from soft Christmas mornings with bright light filtering in to hot chocolate shared around the kitchen island while talking about our days. It’s the last place I saw my dad in. Selling it would feel like letting go of the only tangible piece of him in my life, and I don’t think I can stomach that. Not another loss.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay?”
I realize she’s probably said something and I was too lost in thoughts to realize it.
“Yeah, sorry, was just focusing on my cookies.” A little white lie never hurt anyone.
“All right. Oh, wait, I’ve got Linette on the other line. Can I call you back?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, talk to you later. Love you.”
“I love you,” I say before hanging up. I might not have been able to avoid the matchmaking today, but at least I dodged the topic of finances.
Once I’ve finished spreading the cookies onto the pan, I put the pan in the oven, then grab my phone. I’ll post a picture of the finished result once they’re out, maybe with a little story time of my phone call with Nana, who’s well loved by my followers.
I scroll through my notifications and messages, and only once I’m halfway through my inbox do I recognize a name I’ve only just learned.
@crashandburn wants to send you a message
I accept the conversation, expecting a text, but it’s a voice memo. I hesitate only for a second before pressing play.
“Hey, Lilianne! Sorry, I realized we didn’t ask you for your name yesterday, but I saw it on your page. Oh, it’s Ethan, by the way.”
