Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’ve orderedThe Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, and a few other self-help books off of Amazon. Yes, sadly, this is where I am at the moment. I’ve also Googled ‘getting over him’ and gotten lost down the rabbit hole of well-intentioned advice on relationships, and how to avoid the grandiose narcissist. Maybe Sarah was right after all. Maybe heisa narcissist. The more articles I read, the more I start to believe it.
Christian has asked me numerous times why I look so ‘distracted’ and sad. I’ve given him dozens of hugs, and have reassured him that I’m fine. But am I?
Between work, taking care of Christian, a girls’ night with Cassie and Miriam, baking and reading, the week has managed to chug along. It’s Friday night, and Judy has invited us over for shepherd’s pie. Christian is not a big fan, but I love it.
“Thanks so much for having us,” I tell her as I hand her lemon meringue cupcakes.
Her eyes grow wide with happiness as she lifts the towel, and gets a better look at her treats. “Come in, my loves.”
My loves.It’s what she often calls us. I smile every time. We love her too.
She sets the cupcakes down on the kitchen table. “I have something for you,” she tells Christian, and his eyes light up. She rummages through her hutch, and hands him aHot Wheelscoloring book and some metallic Sharpies. I gasp at the sight of them.
“These are awesome,” he cheers.
“Christian, those are not waterproof,” I warn him. “You need to be super careful.”
I cover the coffee table with old newspaper, and set him up to color. “If you color anything other than this coloring book, I will ground you.”
He looks at me, confused. He has no idea what ‘grounding’ means.
I settle at Judy’s kitchen counter. “Can I do anything to help?”
She painstakingly reaches up into her cupboard for a coffee mug. “Nope. I’ve got it all under control. Can I make you a tea?”
I smile. “Of course. Surprise me.” I really should be the one making the tea. She is eighty-six. But I don’t want to coddle her, and make her feel old. So I let her serve me. I think she loves being independent and being able to do things for herself. She’s notthatold, and I shouldn’t treat her like an invalid.
Before long, there’s a cup of tea sitting in front of me. It’s hot, but I manage a sip. It’s spicy and tasty.
“Bengal spice,” she tells me. “I've just discovered it.”
“It’s good.”
“So what have you been up to?” she asks as she busies herself in the kitchen, preparing our meal. “Any more parties?”
I’m brought back to that first party at Colton’s, and how doe-eyed and naive I’d been. “No, no more parties.”
She cocks a brow. “What’s with the long face?” she asks. “Something’s up with you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I lie. “Life… you know.”
She smirks. “Boy troubles?”
She is so intuitive sometimes, it’s scary. I suppose it’s the ‘old but wise’ quality elderly folks have.
“Sorta,” I admit.
At this, she drops what she’s doing, walks around the counter, and takes a seat next to me. “Tell me everything.”
I smile. I guess there’s no getting out of this. Why is everyone in my life so damn nosy?
“Remember the party I told you about?” I start. “Well, I met a man there.”
She perks up. “Oooh… tell me more.”
I smile. “Well, how the tables have turned. It seems like just yesterday, I was the one sitting up eagerly, waiting anxiously for you to tell meyourstory, and now it’s you waiting. Maybe I should tell it as slowly as you told me yours,” I joke. “Make you beg for it.”
