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I’m sat in my grandparents’ living room while Grandpa mutters under his breath. He’s tapping at his tablet and trying to read the news. My grandma is in the kitchen preparing food. The smell of peppermint clings to the furniture and I perch on the edge of the couch, taking in all the familiar things in the room.
The carpet has wild patterns of orange and brown. It’s one they’ve had since the 70s. It’s so worn they’ve put down a rug, but even that has patches where it’s threadbare.
The walls are painted burnt orange and there are trinkets everywhere. My grandma is from the South, and she brought it with her when she moved to Snowdrop Valley.
I can’t complain about it. The door to the kitchen opens as my grandma shuffles in and the smell of warm biscuits and gravy floods my senses.
My grandparents are two of my favorite people. Even though they’re edging ever close to three digits in age, neither of them will give away their independence.
Grandma insisted I sit on the couch with my glass of lemon water while she hosts me. I’ve offered to help several times, but my grandpa insists on figuring out how to adjust the text size of the news article he’s trying to read. He’s failing.
“Blasted thing,” he mutters again, fiddling with the spectacles propped on the tip of his nose. “How do I make this writing bigger? No. No, that’s not what I want.”
When a robotic voice starts telling him the weather forecast, he finally gives up and places the tablet on the brown table at his side.
“Useless.” He places his glasses down beside the tablet and picks up another pair on the arm of his chair.
“Now, Josie. How is everything at work?” he asks, cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief. “Are you enjoying life in the Big Apple? They still call it the Big Apple, yes?”
I open my mouth to reply, but his question has prompted a memory and I sit back as my grandpa starts telling me a story.
“I’ve been to the Big Apple once, you know? Very strange place.”
His white, wispy brows knit together as he puts his glasses on and looks up at the orange light on the ceiling. “It was for a job interview at one of those stock exchange buildings… Oh, you know the one. What was the name of it now?”
My grandma places a steaming plate of food on a small TV table in front of me and hands me a knife and fork wrapped up in a table napkin. “Albert Jones, dear. And you’ve told this story countless times before.”
Grandpa pays no attention to the comment, but he lifts a wrinkled finger and says, “Albert Jones.”
I listen as Grandpa launches into the old family story about his afternoon in New York, while I tuck into my grandma’s comfort food.
Her cooking is good for the soul. There’s really nothing that feels more like a hug than a big ol’ plate of biscuits and gravy with a side of sausage.
Soon, I’ve forgotten all about why I’m back in my hometown. I’m so wrapped up in the warm familiarity of my grandparents’ home that it comes as a shock when Grandpa utters the last name I thought he’d say. “Logan.”
“Huh?” Startled, I drop my fork with a clatter. “What about Logan?”
Grandma gives me a look of mild concern for a moment, but her expression turns sunny again so fast I wonder if I imagined it. “I know you don’t like us bringing him up in conversation, and for all these years we’ve respected that. But we were wondering if you two had spoken yet.”
“Why would I speak to him now?”
“Well, I just thought with the reunion and all, you two can finally bury the hatchet…” My grandma avoids my incredulous stare. I shift my sight to Grandpa, but he’s chosen to dive into his food.
“Bury the hatchet?” I ask, incredulous. “Why would I do that? He dumped me and then pretended I never existed. Not once has he tried to get in touch. And from what I hear, he’s not changed. His last girlfriend dumped him because he was never around. So…”
I stop talking as a lump forms in the back of my throat. How can this topic still be so hard to talk about? Why do I react this way whenever I think about him?
Probably because my way of coping with the breakup was by stuffing Logan and all of the memories of him in a big box in my head and forbidding anyone to even dare mention he-who-must-not-be-named.
There’s an awkward silence, but for my grandpa working through his plate of food.
He chews, humming gratefully and singing praises to Grandma, who looks at him with a twinkle in her eye.
The sight of them, after all these years together, still totally devoted to each other; it makes my insides ache.
I want that. It’s what I thought Logan and I would be like someday.
But then reality hit. Finding someone who will be your person for most of your adult life is not something everyone experiences.
