Page 48 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“I guess… trying to follow all the technical jargon to make sure I’m not missing anything. Piecing together everyone’s projected schedules to make sure teams hit their target dates.”
“Ah.” He leans forward again and clears his own dishes. “Well, if you find it interesting.”
This comes off a bit dismissive. For a second, I was enjoying being the focus of his attention and curiosity. Now I feel like he’s deemed me and my job boring. And itis. I want him to keep asking questions so I can tell him the truth: It’s soul-crushingly boring, and I only do it for the paycheck, and if you ask me where I see myself in five years, I will say,Please, anywhere but here, except I’m too scared of failure to try anything else.
Gramps closes the dishwasher and looks around at me.
“When you were little, you said you wanted to be an artist.”
“Too bad I never advanced beyond drawing sunflowers with oil pastels.”
And then, as though he read my mind, he asks, “What do you need the paycheck for?”
“Umm… life?”
“Mallory.” His eyes drill into mine, and I can tell he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. “You’re young. You don’t have a spouse or children. You can do anything.”
“Right, but.” I take a deep, frustrated breath. What is it withold people not understanding today’s economy? “I have to pay rent. Which is really expensive.”
“Mallory,” he says again. “You just inherited a house.”
“Yeah, and it’s causing me nothing but problems,” I snap. My laptop pings and I snatch it irritably from the counter.
Gramps stares.
“What are those?”
I follow his gaze to the full jar of cookies. “Fig Newtons.”
He doesn’t say anything, and his face isn’t lighting up with joy, either.
“Lottie always used to—” I start.
He cuts me off. “Please. Take those away and don’t ever do that again.”
“What? But I thought you’d like—”
“Well, I don’t.” He turns a brittle gaze at me. “I’ve passed anger and bargaining, and I’ve moved on to acceptance. I know Lottie is gone. And filling her cookie jar is not going to bring her back.”
I don’t point out that he missed a few stages of grief there. I don’t say anything at all, because my throat aches, full of tears.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but he’s already crossed the kitchen and shut himself in his room.
Around nine that night, when I’ve finally shut my laptop, my phone rings. I expect it to be my mom calling, my mind already racing ahead to how I’ll fill her in on the Fig Newton debacle and how she’ll know just the right thing to say.
But it’s not my mom. The nameDANIEL MCKINNONflashes across the screen. Why is he calling so late?
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mallory. Daniel McKinnon here.”
“Hello, Daniel,” I say, lightly teasing his formal tone.
“Sorry to call so late, but I figured you might be on West Coast time anyway.”
“I am. Sort of.” I sit cross-legged on the bed and pull a seashell pillow into my lap. I wonder where he’s sitting. In his apartment? Does he have roommates? Is his place a monochromatic bachelor pad, decorated in shades of chrome and black, with an oversize painting of a galloping horse above the couch?
“Listen, I wanted to apologize.”
