Page 82 of You Again

His brows knit. “Your ovaries are telling you⁠—”

“That if I don’t touch you, my body is going to rebel against me.” I hiccup and ramble faster. “And I’m sure this is freaking you out. But remember, you freaked me out first.”

“By all means, tell me. I’m not going anywhere, Rose.”

And then, I completely lose my mind. “It’s like my soul—” My voice cracks. I’m not even sure why. “My soul knows you already.” I blow a puff of air through my lips and attempt a fruitless laugh. I sound like an insane woman.

When I’m brave enough to lift my eyes to Zev’s, he’s watching me. His icy blue eyes are glassy and smiling. “I know exactly how you feel.”

Thirty-Six

Rosalie slips her hand into mine. I am so aware of the feel of her, of the grooves and contours of her fingers, of her skin pressed against mine. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get this back, and now that it’s real, I’m taking in every detail.

“Grammy is a little eccentric, but she’s wonderful.” She pauses just before we pass through the kitchen doorway. “Still, she may ask you inappropriate questions.”

I’m not sure about this meeting—but at our last introduction, Noreen most certainly asked me inappropriate questions. I had no idea how to answer this one: “All the kids are French kissing, but do you know how to Swiss kiss?”

I am well aware now, thanks to Grammy.

“That’s fine,” I tell Rose. “I’m just happy to be here.” And I am. I’m also a ball of nerves. My girl’s hand is back in mine after months and months of going without. And yet, I’m supposed to pretend that I’ve never met Noreen before. That she didn’t swat me on the butt and make me flex for Kermit. That I didn’t spend evening after evening in her home after Kermit died.

Noreen and I are old friends at this point.

And yet, I wait for introductions like this meeting is taking place for the very first time. It feels so dishonest. So wrong. But I’m not sure what else to do.

“Grammy,” Rosalie calls, and Noreen pops her little gray head out of the pantry.

“Give me one second,” she says, her head disappearing back into the closet.

I peer around the space that Rosalie and her grandmother have set up together. There’s the cuckoo clock that belonged to her other grandmother. The one who passed away before I knew Rose. It goes off every hour—like clockwork. I have no idea how either of them live with it. But I feel a sense of comfort seeing it there on her wall like always.

“Found it!” Grammy calls from within the pantry. She comes out with a jarred spice, holding it high in the air. Whatever the mystery contents are, she sprinkles them into the pot on the stove before walking over to us.

She plants her small stature right in front of us, then tilts her head to peer up at me. She grins, and it’s more than a greeting—it’s conspiratorial.

“Grammy,” Rosalie says, her palm going clammy against mine. “This is my friend, Zevulun Hayes.”

“Smooching all night long feels like it might be a little more than friendship, dear.”

Rosalie’s jaw clenches, but she presses onward. “Zev, this is my grammy—Noreen Conrad.”

Noreen holds out her palm, and I take her hand and shake it. “Uh, hello,” I say, even my greeting sounds wrong.

“Hello, yourself,” Noreen says. “It’s about time you came around here.”

“Grammy,” Rosalie hisses. “It’s new. It’s⁠—”

“New, schmoo.” Noreen waves a hand in the air. “I’ve been waiting to chat with the redhead.”

“Zev,” Rosalie grumbles, though Noreen is well aware of my name. She glances up at me. “We don’t refer to you as the ‘redhead.’”

“Well, I do.” Noreen loops her arm through mine, and my hand slips out of Rosalie’s. I refrain from cursing. She walks me over to the table and motions for me to sit. “It’s good to have you here,” she says, holding my gaze in a stare. There’s a lot more to that short sentence than what’s stated.

Rosalie sits next to me and my insides flutter when she rests her hand on my thigh, mouthing the word, “Sorry,” to me.

I shake my head, just a little, and smile at her. Noreen doesn’t bother me, and this is tame compared to that first meeting.

“I’ll fix the plates,” Rosalie says. “Is spaghetti okay?”