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“No,” Grant said with a laugh. “But after my mom…” He trailed off, looking remorseful for bringing it up.
“It’s okay, you can talk about her,” Delaney said, reaching for his drink. “It’s important that we normalize saying her name and remembering all the good things.”
It was something Judy had said once in the grief group, and while I understood the sentiment, it was still fucking tough.
Grant swallowed a bite of soup, then nodded. “Anyway, Dad started using Mom’s recipes after she passed. He’s still not as good a cook as she was, but he’s getting there.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he said to Grant, and I could tell it was heartfelt. I wondered if I’d just witnessed one of their more sincere moments.
“What is the best thing you make?” I asked, adding oyster crackers to my soup.
“Probably her chicken paprikash?” He looked at Grant, who nodded in agreement.
“I bet it’s fantastic. I’m not very good in the kitchen, so I can be bribed with home-cooked meals—just ask my mom. There’s a reason I live right around the corner from her.”
Grant leaned toward Delaney. “You should invite Marc when you make it again.”
“I’d love that,” I replied, feeling a warmth flood my stomach.
I met Delaney’s eyes, and he nodded, seeming tempted by the idea.
When Grant’s phone buzzed with a text, he looked down and smiled. “Dad, can I—”
“Go up and play Crusader Kings with Ellie?” He said it like it was a regular occurrence, and from what he’d told me, it absolutely was.
Grant wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Jeremy too.”
“Sounds fun. Don’t stay up too late.”
Grant stood and rinsed his bowl in the sink. “I’m practically an adult,” he replied as he opened the dishwasher.
“Nope, you’re still my teen until you’re official.”
“Whatever. C’mon, Ruby.” He headed toward the stairs to the second floor, and Ruby trailed behind. I was going to guess that she provided them much comfort in these difficult months. “Bye, Marc, hope your power comes back on soon.”
“Me too. Thanks for having me.”
9
Delaney
I watched Grant head upstairs to his computer. I was relieved the dinner had gone pretty well. Grant certainly seemed to find a connection with Marcus, and it was a nice reprieve from his usual grumpiness whenever I interacted with him. Maybe Marcus provided the levity we needed after trying for so long to find common ground.
“He’s just as you described,” Marcus said, pushing back from the table. “Whip-smart and a history buff to boot.”
“Yeah, he definitely takes after Rebecca in that department,” I replied, remembering how their heads would be bent toward each other as they shared relatable memes or videos.
“Hey, don’t do that. You’re just as smart,” he said as if recognizing the stab of frustration in me that I’d never measure up.
“It’s not…” I shook my head, trying to find the right words. “They shared a special, palpable connection. It was…beautiful to see. She loved science, he loved history, and they would nerd-out together.”
He nodded, then folded his arms. “And what do you love?” he asked, and my gaze snapped to his.
I was taken aback by his question. Not that we hadn’t discussed common interests every now and again, but honestly, we mostly discussed our grief. “I…I dunno, exactly.”
“Sure you do,” he insisted. “Take your time.”
“All right.” I swallowed thickly. “Uh, well, some of it you probably already know.”
“Refresh my memory.”
Damn, why was he being so insistent?
“Christ, is this what it felt like going on that first date?” I teased. “Tell me everything about yourself.”
He laughed. “Unfortunately, yes, and it sucks.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve deleted the app and given up?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, then motioned between us. “Sometimes I think it might be better to just make a new friend.”
“We’re not exactly new.”
“No, but maybe this is our transition from being deep in our grief to thinking about what’s next and who we are without them.”
Fuck, that hurt, but he was right.
“Does your family know you’re dating again?”
“No.” He winced. “We’re celebrating my mom’s birthday next weekend, and I might just tell them.”
“That hard, huh?” I teased.
“What do you think?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now stop changing the subject and answer my question. What does Lane enjoy?”
“Crime shows, obscure documentaries, working out.” I smirked. “This old man finally got back on the treadmill. Plus, I’ve got a weight machine upstairs, and that helps me blow off steam.” I patted my belly, which had grown soft in the past few years. “And to keep my paunch from becoming a bigger one.”
“Tell me about it. That whole metabolism and age thing,” he said, though I didn’t note an ounce of fat on him. “But cut yourself some slack. You have a nice physique. And the weight machine explains why you’ve got some good guns.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, flushing, and felt that same prick of something in my gut. Something I didn’t want to name.
