Page 43 of Mistlefoe
It’s only in this moment, as I take in the strangest scene I’ve ever witnessed with my own three eyes, that I realize I’m huffing and puffing and that my heart beats a mile per second. I can finally rest assured that Sierra’s fine because she’s in my Gramps’s kitchen. And I can guess this is also why she couldn’t respond earlier, because her hands are busy stirring the contents of a pot.
What’s more shocking is that she’s wearing matching Christmas aprons with Gramps, emblazoned with two merry snowmen drinking what appears to be cups of eggnog. And they’re frilly, too. The ruffles don’t look half bad climbing up Sierra’s shoulders, but Gramps’s face is almost getting drowned in the things.
I’m not even conscious of plucking my phone from my pocket and snapping a picture. Or ten.
“Hey—”
I interrupt Gramps. “Can someone tell me what the hell is happening here?”
“Watch that mouth of yours, kid.” Gramps places his hands on his hips.
I press my lips hard to not laugh but some of it escapes. Sierra glances at me over her shoulder with the most curioussmile. It makes me forget what I was thinking about. “Sorry, I looked at your texts but I haven’t been able to answer. As you can see, I’m more than okay.”
I turn away and hope my beard and scarf hide the blush creeping up my neck. “Good. That’s—No worries. So, I suppose it went well?”
“Yes, I accomplished what you couldn’t in a matter of seconds.” Her dark eyes twinkle with competitive spirit.
Gramps grunts. “It helps that she’s much easier to talk to.”
Or to look at? Because if so, yes. If she really set her mind to it, she could scam me out of the clothes off my back. I definitely wouldn’t mind that.
Clearing my throat, I unzip my jacket and start unwinding my scarf. “What can I help with?”
“Wash your paws and set the table,” says Gramps, but since he’s taken over the sink washing something, I change tack toward my bathroom.
I need a moment to process this bizarre twist, so I take my sweet ass time washing what Gramps described as paws. My glasses are foggy from a day’s worth of dirt, so might as well wash them too. Not because I’m avoiding seeing Sierra and Gramps be all happy and familiar together, or all the weird things that’s making me feel. Like I could get used to that sight. Like I want it to be a normal occurrence.
Nah, not at all. No one’s freaking out here or anything.
I dry my hands with a towel and snatch a couple of tissues from the box to lightly pat my glasses dry. My first year with glasses taught me a lot. First, that you can’t treat prescription glasses like they’re hockey helmet visors, or they break. Second, that those fancy cleaning cloths they come with take too long to dry compared to how frequently glasses get dirty. Third, that rubbing them with paper will scratch them—but patting is okay. Just have to be gentle.
I’m in the middle of this operation when I walk back outinto my childhood bedroom and find my coworker standing there.
“Whoa!” I startle and jump back, which makes my glasses slip. I catch them mid air, sparing myself from an uncomfortable drive home with bad vision. “Um, Sierra. What are you doing here?”
“Gramps sent me. He said it’d be interesting to see where you grew up, and you know what? He’s not wrong.” She’s still wearing that funny apron and it just serves to stress how none of this makes sense.
“Uh…” I ball up the damp tissue in my hand and put my glasses back on. “Anything interesting, then?”
“So many things. For example, this. When was this?” She points at a picture tacked onto a cork board that hangs over my desk, where I used to half-ass my homework. I step closer behind her and a big sigh empties my chest when I see which one.
“First grade.” I wrinkle my nose. I’m six years old in the picture, grinning up at the camera like I had no concerns in the world, even though I was missing the entire front row of my teeth. Both of my parents held each of my hands, and although you can’t see him, Gramps was there too. He’s the one who took the picture.
Sierra chuckles and it’s like bells and twinkling lights, hot cocoa with marshmallows and a snuggly blanket, all in sound version. “That’s a lot of teeth to be gone at the same time.”
“I stopped a puck with my mouth, it’s how I learned that I didn’t want to be a goalie,” I respond with a thick voice. Will it be weird if I clear my throat? I’ll just try to swallow down the weird feeling.
“Um.” She turns her face to me, biting that perfect lower lip of hers. “Can I ask you what happened to them?”
I’m close enough to feel the heat of her body radiating against my arms. I can inhale the scent of her shampoo andthe smell of food that clings to that damn apron. Sierra Fernandez is in my childhood bedroom, asking me personal things like she’s curious about what makes meme.
“Traffic accident,” I respond after a moment. “Just a couple of months after that picture was taken.”
“Oh, Conor. I’m sorry.” She lifts her hand to find mine, and gives it one squeeze before dropping it.
Shit. What if I want her hand in mine for longer than that?
“Thanks. It was a long time ago and I uh, don’t remember them very well.” I rub my neck just to get rid of the feeling of her hand squeezing mine.
