Page 58 of You Again

And yet, Zev and Partida have got me thinking about a lot of things. Elementary still doesn’t feel right—not really. But maybe, on some weird level, it also doesn’t feel wrong.

If our lives had captions, mine would say: Rosalie Conrad’s life is like a novel with half its chapters ripped out. Loose pages sit in her fireplace, making no sense at all. The real problem: she doesn’t know what to save and what to let burn.

“Grammy,” I say, sitting at our little kitchen table where my grandmother is eating her morning yogurt and granola. “What were your honest-to-goodness thoughts when I changed from secondary education to elementary?”

Grammy balks out a laugh. She dips her spoon into her bowl once more, but it hovers; it doesn’t quite make it to her mouth. “Honestly, darling, I thought you’d gone crazy.”

“Right?” I slink back into my seat and sigh. “That’s how I’m feeling. Why would I do that?”

“Are you asking?” She lifts one brow. She knows the rule. Everyone close to me does. They are only allowed to share when I ask.

“I am,” I say, for the first time in over seven months wanting more on this topic. Nerves sprint throughout my body. I’m suddenly too warm. But I don’t back down. I want to know.

She lets her spoon fall back into the bowl and folds her hands together. “I have no idea.”

I scoff, sweat pooling at my neck from just having asked the question. “So helpful, Gram.”

“Well, I’m sorry, dearest. I think that’s something you’d have to ask Fran or your mother. I was never really made aware. I was shocked and supportive. And—” She pulls in a long breath, closing her eyes, like she’s thinking hard. “You were wonderful. You are an excellent teacher, Rosalie. I’ve never met someone so clearly called to a profession.”

“For elementary?”

“For teaching.” She shrugs, shoving another bite of her breakfast into her mouth. “In my opinion, you could teach anything.”

I tap my toe, my knee bouncing beneath the table. “Maybe I should go back to school.”

“Maybe you should!” Grammy says, much too excited.

My eyes turn to slits, and I test her. “Maybe I should go bungee jumping.”

She slaps the table. “Wonderful idea!”

I cross my arms, staring her down. “Maybe I’ll take the redhead and go get hitched in Vegas.”

And my sensible grandmother grins. “I love it!”

“Grammy!” I whine. “Are you even listening?”

“I am listening, dearest. As long as you’re living and moving forward, I’m going to approve. Do I get to go to Vegas? Either way, I approve.”

“You haven’t even met Zevulun,” I groan.

“That’s not my fault!” She sighs contentedly. “And yet, I already approve.”

I roll my eyes and huff out a breath. “We aren’t even dating!”

“Maybe you should be,” she says.

“Maybe you should go bungee jumping with me,” I throw back at her.

“Maybe I will.” She isn’t afraid of my glares. Nope, she just grins, then shoves another bite into her mouth.

“Why did you use the redhead as your outlandish example?” Fran asks, arms crossed as she studies me.

I lean into Fran’s couch. “Grammy likes him. She’s never met him.” I sigh, eyes wide. “But she’s pretty sure she’s half in love with the man.”

“And what about you? Do you like him?”

Fran, my romcom-loving, wedding-planning matchmaker. Oh boy. There’s a reason I haven’t introduced my best friend to Zevulun. She’d have us shipped with a wedding planned before the end of summer. She can’t understand that my heart is still figuring things out. It’s stuck in the past.