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Jesus!
“I’m not in love with Nathan Everets,” I said hotly. I mean, I couldn’t be, could I? Didn’t you have to know someone a lot longer than a few weeks to fall in love?
Oh God. Was that what all the heat and emotion and burning inside me was about? Was I in love?
“How do you know when you’re in love?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Gram’s eyes were straight ahead, the radio on low. “If you can’t picture your tomorrow without a person in it? Then you’re in
love.”
“Oh,” I said shakily.
I glanced out the window, at the storefronts that blurred as we drove by, and tried to calm my suddenly frantic heart. It took a few moments, but eventually I settled against the seat.
“I told Nate about Malcolm.”
Gram’s eyes were on the road. She didn’t say a word, but her right hand crept over to me and clasped mine in a tight grip. She didn’t let go until we got to some old, rickety store that supposedly sold the finest antiques in the state of Louisiana.
With one hand, she maneuvered her big car into the smallest spot imaginable, something any trucker would be proud of. She cut the engine and squeezed my hand once more before letting go.
When she turned to me, her eyes were soft and pretty…but sad.
“I’m glad,” she said haltingly.
“Me too.”
I swallowed hard. “I miss him so much, Gram.”
“I know.”
The one question that had haunted me since that awful day pressed in hard. I tried not to think about it. I tried to concentrate on the sound that the fan made as it blew out cold air into the car. The radio was still on, the volume low, an old Elvis Presley song played. “Heartbreak Hotel.”
Kind of appropriate.
“I want him to forgive me,” I whispered. “Do you think he can?”
Her hand was on my cheek but my eyes were squeezed shut.
“Your brother loved you, Monroe. There was never anything to forgive. Remember that.”
She stroked my hair and I let out a long, shuddering breath. It felt so good, her touch, her smell.
“Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?” I asked suddenly. I’d been given that line of bull from a lot of different people, and every time I heard it, I wanted to scratch their eyes out. I used to think they said something like that because they just didn’t know what else to say.
I got that. What do you tell a teenager whose brother died on her watch? There were no words, no right thing to say.
“I believe in fate,” Gram said softly. “And I believe in choice. Sometimes the two connect and sometimes they don’t.” She shook her head fiercely. “But Malcolm’s death wasn’t your choice, Monroe. Do you remember what I told you back then?”
Slowly, I nodded. I hadn’t thought about that in forever.
“You told me that I would be fine. That Mom and Dad were going to be fine. That we would all get through this.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And what else did I tell you?”
I had to think hard for a minute. There was so much about that day that I had pushed away. Stuff I didn’t want to think about or remember ever again. Gram had been there with me for the worst of it, and I remembered her warmth, the scent of vanilla. And I remembered her tears.
“You told me that I was going to fall a long way down before someone caught me.”
