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“You two lovebirds resolve everything?” Gramps asks, getting up from the couch as we enter the living room, and before I can respond, Marcus nods and smiles broadly.
“We did, thank you. Emma was just upset that I spilled the beans to Mary. She wanted to be the one to tell you both that we’re moving in together.”
I see red. I literally do.
At first, I’m afraid the blood vessels in my eyes have popped from the explosion of fury blasting through me, but then I realize some of my hair has fallen into my face. Pushing it out of my eyes, I open my mouth to rip into Marcus—there’s only so much pretending I’m willing to do—when Grandma lets out a girlish squeal and rushes forward.
“Oh, this is so exciting,” she gushes, enveloping us both in a perfumed hug. Stepping back, she turns to beam at Gramps. “Isn’t it just the best news ever, Ted?”
“Indeed,” Gramps says as Marcus sneezes for some reason. “We’re so glad Emma will finally be out of that basement studio. Mary told me she’ll be moving into your place, right?”
“That’s right,” Marcus says as I try to find the right words to refute this madness. “My apartment has plenty of room for Emma and her cats.”
“What about your work?” Gramps asks me. “Your bookstore is in Brooklyn, so how will you get there if you live in Manhattan?”
“Oh, I’ve already asked that,” Grandma answers before I can get a word in. “Marcus’s private driver”—she grins at that—“will take her to the bookstore and bring her back every day. And since the apartment is in Tribeca, just a few blocks from the tunnel, the drive won’t take that much longer than her current commute—you know, what with walking to the subway, waiting for the train, and all.”
They’ve discussed the logistics of my commute?
I’m speechless with rage. Literally speechless.
“Indeed,” Marcus says as I struggle with my paralyzed vocal cords. “It’ll be so much safer for her, too. You know the state of those trains these days. Besides, this winter is forecasted to be colder than usual, and she’ll be snug and warm in the car.” Gazing down at me with a tender expression, he presses me to his side and drops a kiss on the crown of my head.
Grandma looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle of joy, and even Gramps sniffles, as if he’s on the verge of happy tears.
The scathing retort I was about to unleash dies on my lips. Because what kind of an asshole would I be if I spoiled this for them? For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have fretted over me, first worrying that my sociopathic mother—their daughter—was neglecting me, then that my childhood with her had left lasting scars on my psyche. Mixed with that worry is deep-seated guilt that their daughter turned out the way she did, along with regret that they didn’t sue for custody of me when I was little.
“I kept thinking she’d turn around and change her ways, that she’d realize how damaging her behavior was to you, her child,” Grandma confided in me tearfully after my mother died and I, being a dumb eleven-year-old, told them what it had been like to live with her. “But she never did, did she? We should’ve taken you away from her years ago, and to hell with lawyer fees and courts favoring the mother.”
Gramps feels the same way—which is why, after I graduated from college, it took every persuasion tactic in my arsenal to convince the two of them to finally retire and move to Florida. They’d been beyond reluctant to leave me alone in Brooklyn, but I knew that year-round sunshine and beachside living was their lifelong dream, and I stood firm, claiming that I was an adult and needed my independence.
And so they gave me that—only to continue worrying about me. Though they’d lived in New York for decades, everything about the city scares them now, from the crowds to the winters to the way it’s a constant target for terrorists. And the fact that I’m living there completely on my own makes it infinitely worse, as they keep picturing me getting sick or hurt and having no one around to look after me.
Which is why it’s so appealing to them, what Marcus is promising right now. Safety, warmth, love, and support—he’s homed in on the exact things my grandparents want for me. And by doing so, he’s backed me into a corner.
I can’t deny them this joy, even if it only lasts for a short while.
So instead of blasting Marcus with the full force of my outrage, I unobtrusively step out of his embrace and say, “It’s getting late. Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.” After I’ve had a chance to yell at the lying, manipulative jerk in private.
