Page 90 of Checking It Twice
Only if you’re not ready for Grandma June’s interrogation about great-grandchildren.
Despite everything, I laugh. Actually laugh, for the first time since we got back from Minnesota. The sound surprises me with its genuineness.
“There she is,” Bryn says softly. “There’s my girl.”
I think I can handle one tiny grandmother,I send back.
You say that now. Wait until she starts showing you baby photos and asking about your ovaries.
My ovaries are none of her business.
Try telling her that.
The easy back-and-forth feels dangerously like flirting, like the kind of playful teasing that got us into trouble in the first place. But I can’t make myself stop, can’t resist the pull of this connection that feels more real than anything else in my life right now.
I miss this,appears on my screen, and my breath catches.
This. Not me, not us. This. The banter, the easy conversation, the way we fit together even through text messages.
Miss what?I type, heart pounding.
Having someone who gets my family’s particular brand of insanity.
It’s safe, neutral territory, but something about the way he phrases it makes me think he’s talking about more than just family dynamics.
They’re not insane. They’re wonderful,I send back.
They miss you too.
Three words that shouldn’t mean as much as they do. They miss me. Not he misses me, but close enough to make hope bloom in my chest like a dangerous flower.
“What’s happening?” Bryn asks, watching my face cycle through emotions.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
My phone buzzes again:Sophie asked if you’re coming for her birthday party in March.
Should I be?
The question hangs there, loaded with possibilities neither of us is brave enough to voice directly. Because asking about Sophie’s birthday party is really asking if this thing between us is worth fighting for, worth the risk of messy complications and professional boundaries.
That’s up to you,comes his response.But she’s already planning the guest list.
Just Sophie?
A pause. Then, his reply.No. Not just Sophie.
The admission makes my chest tight with something that feels dangerously like hope. Because if he’s thinking about March, about future possibilities, maybe this isn’t over after all.
Maybe we’re just getting started.
I should probably go,I type, suddenly needing space to process whatever this is turning into.I’m at happy hour with a friend.
Okay. But Clare?
Yeah?
I’m glad you’re okay.
