Page 84 of Rory Rides Her Fake Fiancé
I close my eyes. “What does it matter?”
Grandma lets go of my hand and chuckles. “Oh, Rory. I’ve been a fool. I asked you the wrong question, didn’t I?”
I open my eyes and look at her. “What do you mean?”
She purses her lips and looks at me. “I asked if you were going to marry him. But maybe I should have asked if you love him?”
“It doesn’t matter, Grandma. You’re not happy here, and we’re moving to Boston.”
She harrumphs and points at her top drawer. “Open that up and pull out the papers.”
I oblige, closing the drawer and sitting back with the thick stack. I glance at the top one. It’s an email printed out. “You know how to print out emails?” I ask.
“Jenny down at the tech hour showed me how to print from my phone. And she showed me how to make the text extra large too.”
It is extra large, and there’s only a few lines per page—no wonder the stack is so thick. There’s only one line of the actual email on this page below the header.
My eyes snag on the sender. Janet Mullins.
Dear Valerie,
It was lovely to see you Tuesday and the preserve appreciates your donation to the pre-K program. Those kids will keep us young! You should come spend time with us again next week.
-J (she/her)
I leaf to the next page. An email from someone named mrsgardineronwisterialane, no salutations:
Valerie,
Shall we visit the Italian restaurant next? Or the horse farm? How do you think Rory would feel about an outdoor wedding? Depends on the season, I suppose. If they decide to marry in April it’s better to be cautious.
I’ll pick you up at two.
It’s unsigned, but I can guess.
I thumb through the pages, my eye catching on the “from” row, and I discover group emails, threads of making plans, and getting-to-know-you conversations.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were spending time with these women?”
Grandma sighs. “At first we were discussing your wedding plans. I didn’t want to seem like I was pushing you two to commit, and I certainly didn’t want to come off as demanding how you spend the money I gave you again. And then . . .” She shrugs. “I started having fun.”
I finally make it to the last page, and a line catches my eye.
I’m so glad Morgan connected us via email.
Morgan did this? He found my grandmother some friends?
“You didn’t answer my question.” Grandma thumps her cane on the floor, leaning in and dislodging Barty, who yowls in indignation and runs into the back hallway. “Do you love him?”
I stare at the papers in my hand.
We don’t make sense, at all. Morgan’s charming, friendly—hell, he’s even a dog person. I’m not any of those things—okay, maybe Princess has convinced me that dogs are pretty awesome. But I can’t ski, I don’t want to make friends with all two thousand Herevians, I don’t know the lore of the Catskills, I don’t have a relationship with my elementary school teacher, and I definitely don’t hear the song of the place like Morgan does.
But when we’re together, I realize—I want it. I want that belonging. I want that sense of community, that group of friends that’s willing to pool their money for the benefit of everyone.
And mostly, I want Morgan. I could never be that person without him.
“Yes,” I say, looking back up at my grandmother. “I love him.”
