Page 25 of When We Were More
“Goodnight, Layla. I love you,” Hayden says when it’s his turn.
When she gets to Holden, he rises. “I’m sorry I woke you up, ladybug. Do you want me to put you to bed instead of Uncle Harrison? Since I’m your favorite?” He kisses her forehead.
Layla’s hold on Harrison tightens.
“I love you, too, Uncle Holden. But Uncle Harry is myfirstfavorite. I want him to tuck me in.”
When Harrison goes to tuck Layla back into bed, Holden frowns. “I seriously can’t believe I’m not her favorite. Harrison is grumpy. I’m the fun-loving uncle.”
Hayden laughs for the first time tonight. “Goes to show you that you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. Our ladybug is one smart cookie.”
They joke back and forth for a minute, and I get lost in the thought that I hope Holden isn’t Tillie’s ‘cup of tea.’ What does that hope I’m holding onto mean, though? That’s something I’m not ready to dive into yet.
CHAPTER 12
Tillie
Today’s a day to celebrate,but I’m also sad. Not because it’s the day my divorce became finalized—but because every year since I left Joe, Gram and I would order a pizza, sit on this porch (as long as the weather permitted), and indulge in a couple of celebratory drinks. It’s not the same this year because Gram isn’t here. It’s my first time marking the anniversary without her.
I’ve ordered the pizza, and I’m in my sweats and long-sleeved T-shirt. With my favorite afghan wrapped around my shoulders, I walk from the house to the front porch swing, carrying my elderflower martini.
Once on the porch swing, I rock slowly and think about how my grandmother introduced me to elderflower martinis on the first anniversary of my divorce. It started out as a rough day. I felt like a failure. I wanted to crawl under my blankets and not come out until the day was over. Not because I still wanted to be married to my ex, but because I couldn’t believe that at twenty-six years old, I had already made such a colossal mess of my life.At least it seemed like that back then. But I’ll never forget Gram’s spunkiness as she set me straight.
A sharp knock on my bedroom door jolts me from my daze, and I turn my head to find Gram in the doorway, staring at me. I grunt at her and pull my blanket tighter.
“C’mon, Tillie girl, we’re going out. Get up and get dressed, it’s one o’clock.”
“I don’t want to go out. I’m tired and I want to stay in bed today.” I turn away from her and contort myself into a fetal position. Within seconds, Gram comes the rest of the way into my room, rips my blankets off me, and tosses them to the side.
“Sorry, sweetheart. There’s no wallowing in sorrow today. You’ve been free of that jerk for a year. That’s worth celebrating.”
Over the next few minutes, she practically manhandles me into getting my shoes on and heading out to her truck.
I chuckle, thinking back to Gram’s big old pickup truck. She loved being able to haul stuff around in one, and as far back as I remember, she always had one. She was a tiny bit of a woman, and it was almost comical to see her driving around town in such a beast.
Once Gram got me that far that day, she dragged me to the store andinsistedthat we buy top-shelf vodka and the most expensive elderflower liqueur they had. When we got home, she mixed the alcohol and some tonic water, and when I took my first sip, my taste buds were thrilled. Usually, I don’t like the taste of alcohol—except wine—but Gram made a killer elderflower martini. As I sip the one I just made, I think that mine isn’t quite as great as Gram’s was, but is still pretty damn good.
I’ll never forget how this tradition began.
I’m holding the martini Gram made, and she’s watching me. I take a sip. Wow, I did not expect to like this. The only martiniI’ve ever tried prior to this was one sip of a dirty martini, and I hated it. But this is flavorful and yummy.
Gram looks me straight in the eye and says, “This is our ‘fuck you’ to Joe.”
First, I’m shocked. I’ve never heard Gram swear. Then, I can’t stop laughing, and I nearly pee my pants. My grandmother just said fuck. It takes a minute, but when I catch my breath after the episode, Gram looks at me and says, “Well, go ahead—say it.”
“Say what?”
“I want you to stand here on this porch and say, ‘Fuck you, Joe.’ Yell it to the winds.”
“Gram, who are you? I’m not going to say that.”
Gram is quicker than I would have thought when she snatches the drink out of my hand so fast that I’m stunned.
“You don’t get the martini unless you do the chant.”
I raise an eyebrow at her and put my hands on my hips—something she says I’ve always done when I’m being sassy. I stare her down. But that’s the thing about Gram: no one ever beat her in any kind of contest. My Gram is a badass. She could—and does—do anything she wants. She’s smashed every goal she ever had. So, of course, she wins the stare down.
“Ugh. Fine. Fuck you, Joe! There, can I have my martini back now?”
