The Chemistry of Love(63)

Marco tried to show me what I should be doing, but I was enjoying twirling, taking in the landscape. He did get me to move forward, and we just kept slashing things with our swords.

After doing that for a bit, I announced, “I don’t get this game. We’re just running around and hitting anything that moves.”

“Seems like you get it,” he said.

We played until the food arrived, and then we sat at his table to eat. “Before we start, I have something,” he announced.

He got up to go into his room, and I called after him, “I could make you a cream for that!”

Instead of responding to my joke, he came back with a large binder and put it on the table. “This is for you.”

I took a big bite of my hamburger, pulling it toward me. “What is it?”

“It’s a binder of information about Craig. Likes, dislikes, things like that.”

I swallowed my food and said, “You made a binder with color-coded tabs about your brother?” He really was dedicated to the cause.

“My assistant made it.”

“You should give her a raise,” I said as I flipped it open.

“Sorry about the homework.”

Not able to help myself, I immediately responded, “I love homework.”

“I suspected as much,” he said, popping a couple of french fries in his mouth. “There’s ketchup here. If you want it. Because it goes with everything.”

I did want it. That was the problem. I turned away from him and ran my fingers along the tabs of the binder, stopping at the last one. I read the title out loud. “Sports.”

“He’s a big fan of the Portland Jacks.” He paused, like he was waiting for a response and then added, “They’re a professional football team from Oregon.”

“I know who they are,” I protested, indignant. I did know that, right?

Marco didn’t seem to believe me. “What do you actually know about sports?”

“There’s balls and some type of head gear and butt slapping, from what I understand.”

“I thought your grandpa was a big Dodgers fan.”

“He is. But my parents were on their way home from a game that night and I’ve just . . . never really wanted to watch baseball since then.”

“That’s understandable.”

“But you did the opposite. You run the company that your mom modeled for.” He hadn’t walked away from it, even though there had to be painful memories associated with Minx. Especially when they ran that retro campaign with his mother’s image.

“Our situations were different. If your grandparents had owned the Dodgers, you would have still gone to the games.”

I picked up my soda and took a drink. “You’re probably right. You know, you have good insight into things.”

“Spent a lot of time in therapy.”

That surprised me. I put my cup back down. “Really?”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“No, I agree with you. I’m just impressed. You don’t seem like the therapy type. More of the put-everything-into-a-tiny-internal-box-and-cram-it-all-down-inside-you-and-never-speak-of-it-again kind of guy.”

“I was that way for a long time until I realized how much it was messing me up. My dad wouldn’t have wanted me to go, but when I turned eighteen, I started making decisions about the things that were best for me, and getting professional help was one of those things. Losing a parent is a lot, and it helped to have someone to talk to about it. Did you ever go to therapy?”

“I did a couple of sessions right after the accident. Then my grandma decided I was done and that all I needed was to work hard to deal with my feelings. But secretly I wanted to keep going.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?” he asked.

I shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I was afraid that if I spoke up, if I didn’t do everything they wanted, that I’d lose them, too. I know that was irrational, but I was a kid. But I think that’s one of the reasons why I don’t always speak up for myself.”

He considered this. “You stood up for yourself today with the Lasik thing.”

“Yay! Point for me for not letting people cut my eyeballs open.” I ate a few more french fries and then said, “It’s funny. You would think you and I wouldn’t have anything in common. We’ve had totally different upbringings. Different life experiences. But when I hang out with you—it’s like none of that matters. Like you understand me.”

“Maybe I do,” he said. “Grief is a great equalizer. But then there’s the fact that I just like hanging out with you, too. Speaking of, I gave you the binder, the hair, the clothes. Technically we’re finished, but . . . do you want to stay?”

While I recognized the fact that I might have been mistaken, I thought I detected a hopeful tone in his voice.

Like he wanted me to say yes.

“Sure. Let me just make a phone call.” I walked over toward the front door, out of sight. I dialed the number quickly and when I heard a “hello?” I said, “Grandpa? I’m going to be out late. Don’t wait up for me.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


“Did you want to pick up where we left off with the video game?” he asked as we cleared our trash off the table now that we had finished eating. He had one of those fancy trash cans stored inside a sliding cabinet.