Page 56 of Say You Will

“I think it’s cute when old people are still sweet on each other.” The real words that end up leaving her lips are meant to pull the attention away from me and onto herself. In her own way, Franki is trying to protect me. It’s not necessary, but she’s so damn wonderful.

Dad puffs up and joins in her fun. “Hurtful words, young lady. Hurtful words.”

“I hate to say it, but I think you’ve lost the moral high ground here.” Gabriel grins at our mother.

Then he throws an arm around Franki and leans into her. I tense, ready to push my chair back and go straight at him. Rip that arm away from her. He can’t touch her like that. He can’t—

He whispers something in her ear, and she turns to him and smiles. Then she pats his hand where it rests on her shoulder.

Inside, I don’t go cold; I burn hot with something I’ve never felt in my life. There’s no logic in it at all. It’s coming straight from my limbic cortex, the part of my brain that controls “Fight, Flight, Feed, and Fuck.”

My reaction is unreasonable. It’s unfair to Franki. She deserves better.I need to be better.I look down and shove my food around on my plate. If this is what jealousy feels like, maybe bringing Louis Larrabie here to encourage Dean wasn’t my best idea.

eighteen

Franki

Matilda | Harry Styles

“Wow. You have somuch space,” I say.

Two large tables with ergonomic seating anchor Bronwyn’s craft room, and a cozy chair with an ottoman cuddles into a nook near a large window. Bronwyn has decorated the room with houseplants of various sizes, and a colorful painting holds pride-of-place above an antique sideboard she uses for storage. The effect is expansive, but warm and eclectic.

Bronwyn walks over to throw an arm around my waist. Meanwhile, Charlotte, Sydney, and Janessa are already seated on a comfortable-looking sofa and loveseat. Bronwyn’s grandmother, Rose McRae, sits in the chair near the window with knitting needles already in hand, working on what appears to be a green blanket.

It always throws me off when I see Mrs. McRae doing something so normal. She’s changed into a high-necked ruffled nightgown covered in an elegant silver brocade robe and fluffy slippers for the sleepover craft party. It had been so long since I last saw Mrs. McRae that her new fragility pulls at my heartstrings.

I remember her as an intimidating woman, one who hurt Bronwyn’s feelings so often. Yet, she’s the one who taught Bronwyn how to knit, and Bronwyn’s ubiquitous pearl necklace was a gift from her Grandmother Rose. Even now, Mrs. McRae eyes Bronwyn with a combination of exasperation and love. “Bronwyn, don’t bounce around like that. You need to sit down and rest. Act like a lady.”

Bronwyn pulls a face, then turns back to her grandmother. “I took a nap earlier, Grandmother. But thank you for worrying about me.”

Mrs. McRae purses her lips at Bronwyn’s response, then shakes her head. “You should be convalescing, not entertaining. Don’t overdo things. We almost lost you.”

Bronwyn walks over to bend down and press her cheek to Mrs. McRae’s. “I love you too, Grandmother.”

Mrs. McRae huffs. “Goodness, child.” But she holds Bronwyn’s face to hers with a heavily veined hand for several seconds before she pats her and says, “Go sit down. I don’t like to see you limping around like this.”

For years, I’ve attempted to convince myself that my mother and father love me like Mrs. McRae loves her family. I toldmyself that they’re simply not the kind of people who know how to show love, and deep down, where I can’t see it, they feel it. But the truth is, Icansee Mrs. McRae’s love.

Bronwyn walks to one of the long tables and sits, motioning me closer. “Make yourself at home.” She indicates the table, the shelf-lined walls, and the cabinetry that wraps around the space. “Pick a project. Any project.”

A combination of overhead, ambient, and task lighting lend a cozy, but practical vibe to Bronwyn’s craft room. Bronwyn likes to scrapbook sometimes, and she has a bookcase filled with those. Charlotte started some of them for her when we were just kids.

Charlotte might be an award-winning architect, but she also makes badass scrapbooks. Bronwyn’s are cute and a little cheesy. Charlotte’s look like every page is designed by an expensive New York ad agency.

Mostly, this room is loaded up with tons of different yarn.

“How does it feel to live my dream?” I tease.

Bronwyn smiles. “Advantages to living in a big house in the country.” She indicates my pink pajamas. “I like the pj’s.”

I finger the soft, fleecy fabric covered in cartoon wiener dogs. I put my hair into a braid and took out my contact lenses too. “Henry bought them for me when we were shopping.”

I’d seen them in the store and gushed about how cute they were. He immediately put them in the cart, but I stopped him. “My parents would kill me for wearing something like that.”

He scowled. “What does anyone else have to say about what you do with your own body?” Then he distracted me and, apparently, bought them anyway. As far as the fact that I used an electric scooter to get around the store, he showed very little reaction at all. He definitely didn’t appear to be embarrassed by me.

When I went up to change for our sleepover craft night, the pajamas lay folded on my pillow with a note that read:“Dear Franki, If you want them, you should have them. The pajamas and your bedding have been laundered with the unscented detergent you prefer. Wear them or don’t. It’s your choice. Always Your Henry.”

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