chapter six
I ENTER THE GYM, ball cap hanging low over my eyes in a poor attempt at going incognito, or as invisible as possible in hot-pink Lululemon leggings. My gym bag snags on the turnstiles. I tug it twice before pulling it free.
When the combination lock in my bag makes a loud, echoing clunk against the stainless-steel turnstile, Claire, the redheaded girl behind the front counter, holds her hand over her mouth. She does a piss-poor job of not laughing in my face.
So much for stealth mode.
I take a cautious scan around as I head for the changing room, fully expecting to meet Squat Rack Thief’s inevitable taunting look from one of the machines I’m planning to use. All the regulars are here. The veiny gym bros. The hard-core female bodybuilder flexing up a storm in the mirror, admiring her impressive, award-winning, competition-ready figure. Yet Squat Rack Thief is nowhere to be found.
Head down, I busily film my planned segments for the day. But every time a tall, muscular dude enters the gym, my stomach free-falls and I do a double take. I’m on guard, just waiting for him to show. But he doesn’t.
Truth be told, I’m relieved. How am I supposed to face him again after yesterday? It was undoubtedly the hottest moment of my life, and my clothes stayed on the entire time. In fact, I’d go as far as saying it was better than sex. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. All day and night.
Unfortunately, there’s a ninety-nine-percent chance he thinks I concocted the phone thievery as an excuse to attack him in the changing room. Not only does that make me look like a desperate, sex-crazed lunatic, but I can’t help but ponder what would have happened if that bald man hadn’t walked in and interrupted us. Would we have gone any further? Probably, given we were dry humping against the lockers, my legs hoisted around his waist like a pretzel. And worse, I catch myself wishing we had, which goes against my vow to take a break from random hookups.
While we didn’t actually have sex, no faceless Tinder random has ever made me feel . . . that before. No less a nemesis who refuses to tell me his name.
I chastise myself for my lingering thoughts of him as I exit the gym, thighs already burning from my workout. I must resist thinking about that man, no matter how many abs he has, or how deep his V line is.
By the time I’m half a block away from home, my mind has spiraled into hypotheticals. What if he’s avoiding me? He must be. Either that, or he’s come down with a sudden illness, or he perished in a freak accident. Avoidance is the most logical explanation, though. It’s no coincidence he’s suddenly changed his schedule after days of coming to the gym at the exact same time. Obviously he doesn’t want to face me.
Maybe he can’t stomach the awkwardness, similar to how I long to disappear into dust and nothingness when I see Tinder Joe, who, by the way, still acts like I don’t exist.
I attempt to push Squat Rack Thief out of my mind as I check the mail in the lobby and head up to my apartment, flyers, bills, and a massive package of sponsored protein bars in hand.
The moment I open the front door, I’m unexpectedly greeted by a bright-eyed, newly permed Grandma Flo wielding a batter-covered whisk. She’s wearing Tara’s flour-covered apron, which reads GET SOME.
Before I can even ask why Grandma Flo is in my apartment, the whisk is halfway down my throat, choking me. “Do you taste the butter?” she demands, luminous hazel eyes boring into mine like an operative interrogating their latest captive under seizure-inducing fluorescent lights.
When I gag dramatically, she takes mercy and removes the whisk. “Uh, yeah. I taste the butter. Why?” I ask, catching a glimpse of Tara snickering on the couch among a pile of books.
Tara followed me on the Instagram train. She’s a bookstagrammer, someone who reads 483,398 books a year and posts reviews. With thousands of followers, she receives stacks of free books in the mail from publishers who want her to advertise and review upcoming releases. Reminding her to keep her books in her room instead of littering my living room with them has become my second job. Tara makes some money from her bookstagram, but certainly not enough to warrant it being a full-time job, which is the only thing that saves her from Mom and Dad’s disapproval. She has a “proper” job as a registered nurse in the neonatal ward at the children’s hospital.
Satisfied with my response, Grandma Flo swivels back to my kitchen, still talking. “At the church potluck, Janine asked Ethel if my shortbread was store-bought. The gumption!”
Janine Fitzgerald is Grandma Flo’s church nemesis. As the story goes, their rivalry began over a coveted church pew and went downhill after a particularly dramatic Bible study. I only half-listen as Grandma goes on a long-winded rant about how Janine likes to hold her hands in the air during sermons, purposely to block her view.
I plop onto the couch beside Tara. “How long has she been here?” I ask, voice low.
“Two hours. She said she had some business in the city. She walked in on me while I was naked. Didn’t even bother to knock.”
“Why were you naked in my apartment?” I fury-whisper. “And aren’t you supposed to be doing a shift at the hospital?” I kick off my running shoes and toss the unopened mail on the coffee table.
She shakes her head, promptly ignoring my first question. “Yeah. I got sent home early.”
The look on her face tells me there’s a story here, so I remain silent, just waiting.
“I was the unfortunate victim of pea-green explosive diarrhea.”
I cover my mouth, stifling a bubble of laughter as I open my laptop to begin my workout plan for a virtual client in Arkansas. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
“It was so potent. You would have fainted,” she says, expression grave.
“Anyway, why is Grandma here?” I ask.
Tara opens her mouth, itching to spill the tea, but stops when Grandma Flo emerges from the kitchen, plate of cookies in hand. She sets them in front of Tara, who she feels is “much too thin” and at risk of “withering away” at any given moment.
After settling into the chair, she fusses with one of my tiny succulents on the side table. Apparently unsatisfied with its state, she carelessly dumps the remainder of Tara’s tea over the top. RIP succulent. Grandma Flo has never had a green thumb.
“As you know, I canceled Easter this year,” Grandma Flo starts slowly, choosing her words carefully. She delays, picking at a loose thread in the stitching of my chair.
I half-close my laptop to give her my full attention. “Were you actually at the casino?”
She shakes her head. “No. I was . . . with someone.”
“With someone?” Tara and I ask simultaneously.
She flashes us her ring hand, unveiling what looks like a ruby, flanked by an elegant yellow-gold band. “I’m engaged.” She holds her breath, as if bracing for our reaction.
While Tara launches to her feet and shrieks in delight, practically crushing Grandma with a hug, I sink into the couch, only narrowly saving my laptop before it topples to the floor. My mind refuses to compute her words. “Engaged?” What fresh hell?
The only man I can picture Grandma Flo with is Grandpa. Though he passed away of bone cancer three years ago, I never imagined she would date again. I think about how they used to sit side by side in matching La-Z-Boys watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! every single night. Or how their wild nights out consisted of attending a Tuesday sermon, then heading home at eight to devour a bag of Chex Mix while gossiping about their fellow churchgoers.
“I didn’t even know you were dating.” The words sound foreign coming out of my mouth as I turn to Tara. “Did you know?”
“No,” Tara says. “Isn’t it funny, though? Grandma has a more active dating life than us.” She stares at the space on her finger where her massive princess-cut diamond used to sit. I’m half convinced one of the worst parts of her breakup was giving up the ring.
“Who are you marrying?” I ask, turning my attention back to the matter at hand.
“Martin Ritchie,” Grandma says, smiling like a lovesick baby deer.
Tara cuts in. “Oh! We know him. The guy that lives down the street from you, right?”
Grandma nods with pride. “The very one.”
“That guy? Really? The one with the mustache who you and Grandpa used to play bocce ball with?” I conjure up a blurry image of his thick, eighties-porn-star mustache in my mind. He was always in a striped polo shirt, from what I can remember.
Grandma Flo goes on a ramble about how active Martin is. Something about boating and tennis. Her eyes go misty and sentimental as she details their weekend getaway on Cape Cod. The seafood. Her seasickness. His unwavering support. The romantic sunset proposal. I barely absorb a word. I don’t know how to process this information. It isn’t that I’m upset she canceled our family Easter tradition. It’s the fact that she’s essentially been leading a double life.
“Wow. I mean, I’m shocked. But I’m happy for you,” I force out, along with a sweet granddaughter-esque smile. “When is the wedding?”
She shrugs. “We haven’t gotten that far. A summer wedding would be nice, though it’s such short notice. We’d be hard pressed to find any available venues—”
A wheezy gasp comes out of Tara’s throat, startling me. She looks like she’s just come up with a cure for a life-threatening disease. “Oh my God. I still have my wedding venue. The Sheraton. And most of my vendors.”
Grandma blinks. “You didn’t cancel them?”
“Not yet. They’re holding my deposits and I thought . . . maybe there was hope Seth would change his mind.” She pauses, chin trembling. “But he won’t. So you can have it all if you want. Then all that money and planning won’t go to waste.”
The furrow deepens between Grandma Flo’s thin brows as she considers this bizarre proposition.
I grip the edges of my laptop, studying Tara’s unreadable face. “And you’d be okay with this?” I honestly don’t know how I’d feel witnessing someone else walk down the aisle at my venue, on my date, with my décor and music, knowing it was supposed to be me.
“I am, actually.” Tara looks genuine. By the way she’s lowered her shoulders, I think she might even be a little relieved. “You know Dad would be all for it. It would be responsible and economical.” She mimics Dad’s voice.
Grandma Flo smiles in agreement. “You know, I think I might take you up on that. I’d have to discuss it with Marty first, but I’m sure he will love the idea.”
As she and Tara embrace in a sentimental moment, I try to envision what Grandma is going to wear. Will she go for a traditional bridal gown? A ball gown? Some sort of elegant pantsuit? The whole thing is bizarre and near impossible to imagine, as I’ve only ever seen her wear her signature Grandma outfits. The ones adorned with nature patterns on the front. A pair of loons. A maple leaf. A fox. Certainly not a wedding dress.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Grandma Flo says, clasping her hands together. “Do you have plans tomorrow night?”
“I don’t think so.” I rest my head against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling, silently willing life to return to a simpler time when Grandma Flo wasn’t taking over Tara’s wedding. Better yet, when I wasn’t climbing my nameless nemesis in the gym after vowing off random hookups. I need a strong drink.
“Good. I’d like you to meet Martin’s family. We made a reservation at Mamma Maria’s.”
I let out a prolonged sigh at the thought of spending my night socializing with strangers. Tara covers up my less-than-enthusiastic response by fawning over the ring, interspersed with detailed wedding talk. I throw in the odd nod and squeal so as to appear semi-thrilled while still in shock. Grandma eventually packs up the rest of her cookies (for Martin) and leaves, but not before expressing disapproval of my leggings, pointing out my severe camel toe.
“Crystal.” Tara tosses the sequin throw pillow at me the moment the door closes. “Don’t you dare go all Meet the Fockers on Martin. He’s a sweet old man.”
I toss the pillow back. It bounces off her knee and onto the floor. “What makes you think I’ll go Robert De Niro on him? I don’t own a lie detector test.”
“Yet.” She pauses. “And because that’s just what you do. You go into mama-bear mode. On everyone.”
I pull back, brows knit. “No. I don’t.”
She gives me a pointed look, as if this is something she’s been meaning to bring up. “You’ve hated every guy I ever dated. Did you know Seth was terrified of you? You didn’t even speak a word to him until probably six months into our relationship. And that was just to ask him to borrow his veggie spiralizer.”
I stare at her. I never did give the spiralizer back. Probably because zucchini pasta has become a staple in my diet, and also because I just knew Seth was going to suck. But maybe Tara has a point. The last thing I want to do is upset Grandma Flo if she’s found a second chance at happiness.
“I’ll be nice. I promise.”