Page 103 of Sweet Caroline
Without speaking, Caroline climbs off the bed and tugs me into her arms. She kisses my neck, then my cheek, before nuzzling into my chest. Her voice is muffled against my T-shirt, but I can still hear the emotion in it when she says, “I’m so glad you didn’t give up.”
I’ve barely been homein three days, Caroline and I having come to some kind of unspoken agreement to spend these last few days before the election together. Ever since the fire at Sonora, it’s like we’ve dropped every pretense of our relationship being fake. I can only assume it’ll hurt more to pull the plug this way, but I can’t seem to get enough of her and I refuse to sleep at home unless she’s with me. I think we’re both milking this little bubble of denial for all it’s worth, but staying at her place has also made practical sense, what with her needing to be around for hergrandfather. At least I finally got to meet the guy. Now I understand how Caroline got to be so kindhearted, despite the judgy, bullshit example her parents set.
“Smells great in here!” George shuffles into the kitchen with his walker.
“Hey,” I say, throwing him a grin over my shoulder. “Almost ready here.” I turn back to my task, scooping steaming portions of spaghetti and meatballs onto three plates. I’m not usually a fan of cooking for myself but, for some reason, it’s easier when Caroline’s keeping me company. And I make a kickass spaghetti—when I’m motivated, anyway. It’s one of the dishes Mom made sure Jude and I learned to cook for ourselves. We survived off a lot of spaghetti in those early days after our parents died. It’s like a weird mix of grief and comfort to eat it now, which is probably why it felt right to make it tonight, on the cusp of this thing ending.
Right now, Caroline is the source of all my comfort and, in a matter of days, she’ll be the reason for all my grief.
“Grandpa,” Caroline starts, turning from the sink where she’s washing a few dishes, “did Sadie ever let you know if she could pick up that extra shift next week?” She places a pan on the dish rack and stoops to dry her hands on a nearby tea towel.
“No, I don’t think she can. Sounds like that boy of hers is keeping her busy. Teenagers, y’know.” He raises his bushy eyebrows, settling into his seat at the table.
“How old is this kid?” I ask. I’d met Sadie in passing the other night; there was definitely an exhausted mom vibe behind her kind eyes, although it was obvious she has a great relationship with George.
“Thirteen, I think?” Caroline answers. “Fourteen, maybe.”
“A baby!” I say with a smirk. “I remember being thirteen. When Gus and I weren’t falling off our skateboards, we were just trying to figure out a way to seesome boobs.”
Caroline pauses gathering cutlery from a drawer to nudge me, glancing toward George with wide eyes.
“Shit, sorry. I mean…”—I clear my throat—“or… dang, sorry.”
“Believe it or not, darling,” George says to Caroline as I place the plates of spaghetti on the table, “I was once a young man, myself.”
She takes a seat across from him. “I don’t believe you were anything but a fine, upstanding young man.” Twirling her fork through her pasta, she throws a pointed look my way.
“What was that for?” I ask, faking shock. “Are you implying you don’t think I wasfine and upstandingin my youth?”
“Oh, please,” she teases. “You’ve gotformer teenage menacewritten all over you.”
“Wha—?” I scoff. “Me?”
She only lifts a brow.
“Yeah, alright.” I cave immediately, reaching for my water as I throw her a wink.
George swallows and wipes his mouth on a cloth napkin. “Appearances can be deceiving, Caroline.”
“Yes, I know, which is why Miles here isn’t fooling me for a second.”
“No, sweetheart,” he says, leaning closer to her. “I meantme.”
“You?” Caroline sets down her glass.
“You think I was born with white hair and a crossword puzzle in my hand?” At the amused tilt of her head, he adds, “I got up to mischief back in my day, like any young man.”
“What kind of mischief?” I ask, too curious not to press for a story.
“Well, I met my late wife when we were juniors in high school.”
A soft sadness takes shape in Caroline’s features at the mention of her grandma.
I reach under the table, gently stroking her thigh through the silky, billowy fabric of her skirt.
George places his fork beside his plate, sitting back in his chair. “I used to sneak out every Sunday night, run the five blocks to her house, and hop the back fence just to see her. I’d throw pine cones at her bedroom window.”
Caroline’s face lights up as she listens. “Why every Sunday?”
