Page 166 of The Temptation
The awkwardness I thought I’d feel coming here and meeting them is strangely missing.
After the greeting at the door by my grandmother—which definitely made me feel uneasy because of how raw and overwhelming it was—I expected the tension to settle in. But it didn’t. Not really.
There’s a warmth here I didn’t anticipate. Something familiar in the way she fusses over me, ushering me inside like she’s trying to make up for lost time in the span of a single afternoon. Her hands tremble as she sets out tea and biscuits, as if keeping them busy might keep her emotions in check.
And my grandfather … he’s quieter. Watching me with eyes that study, not judge. He hasn’t said much, but there’s something steady about him, like he’s holding it together for all of us.
It’s bizarre being in a house filled with strangers who don’t feel like strangers at all.
I’m thankful I have my lunatic wife beside me. She’s chattering away like she’s known them for years. She’s already asked about their garden, complimented the wallpaper, obtained the recipe for the biscuits my grandmother baked this morning, and somehow managed to convince my grandfather to show me his model car collection.
She’s spoken more words in the short time we’ve been here than the rest of us combined. And honestly, it helps. Her energy fills the silence I’m still struggling to step into. Every time I feel myself slipping too far into my own head, she pulls me right back out with a comforting hand on my thigh, a smile, or one of her ridiculous comments that only she could get away with saying.
I can already tell my grandmother adores her just like I do.
Neither Lucia nor I drink tea. To me, it tastes like hot leaf water strained through an old sock, but I manage to force down a few polite sips, relying on the biscuits to cleanse my taste buds when I’m done.
Once we’ve eaten, Lucia and I follow my grandfather down the corridor towards the room that houses his collection. My eyes briefly skim over the framed pictures that line both walls as we pass. All of my dad, at different ages. I want to stop and take in every detail, memorise his face in every stage of life, but I don’t.
I keep walking, because I don’t trust myself not to become emotional if I do.
Their place is small and dated, but neat. It’s homely, and I would’ve loved coming here when I was a kid.
It could do with some renovations. Maybe when I get to know them better and feel comfortable enough to ask, I can help then with that.
“Here we go,” my grandfather says with enthusiasm as he opens the door to what I presume was once a bedroom.
Three of the walls feature floor-to-ceiling display cabinets with glass doors, housing his model cars, and I’m impressed by the sheer number he owns.
I’ve never had a collection of anything. When I was a kid, we couldn’t afford stuff like that, and considering we moved around so much, I always travelled light. Usually, I’d carry a plastic bag that held my measly belongings.
My grandmother eventually joins us as her husband points out some of his favourites and the rarer models.
“Gabe gave me this on our last Christmas together,” he whispers, opening the cabinet and gently pulling out a 1969 Ford Mustang. It’s black, flawless, and there’s not a single fingerprint visible on the shiny paintwork.
I hear the catch in his voice when he adds, “He put it together himself. Unlike me, he had the patience for all those fiddly kinds of things.”
He clears his throat, but I don’t miss the way he looks at the car with what could best be described as heartbreak before gently placing it back inside the cabinet.
“Would you like to see his bedroom?” my grandmother asks. “It’s untouched, just the way he left it. I didn’t have the heart to …”
The rest of her words die off, but I have a fair idea what she was going to say.
“Okay,” I answer with a nod.
There’s a part of me that’s desperate for any scrap of knowledge about that man. But there’s a hesitant part that’safraid of what I might find. Afraid that walking into that room will make the loss feel more real than it ever has before.
We follow her out, and my grandmother stops by the door at the end of the hallway. I don’t miss the way her frail hand shakes as she reaches for the door handle. It makes me wonder how many times she’s entered this room since his passing, or if the pain of his loss is just as strong all these years later.
The door opens with a quiet groan before she steps aside and gestures for me to enter. I make a mental note to bring some WD-40 the next time I visit.
The air inside is stale and musty. “Everything is exactly how he left it,” my grandmother says from the doorway.
My eyes move around the room, and it feels like I’m stepping back in time. Posters of Nirvana, AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses cling to the walls, their edges curled. A Walkman and a bottle of cologne sit on the dresser.Drakkar Noir.I take note of the scent, because I need to know what it smells like … what he smelt like.
His bed is made, sort of. The sheets are rumpled, and the comforter is tossed haphazardly, like he was in a hurry. Oblivious to the carnage that awaited him once he left the safety of this house.
There’s a flannelette shirt draped over the end of the bed, and scuffed high-top sneakers sit on the floor.
