Page 53 of What I Like About You

“I know what you mean,” Nash says softly. “Memories tend to mess with us like that, don’t they?”

I nod, wiping my cheeks. “But also I didn’t know losing her would mean losing both of them. Missing her is hard enough. I wasn’t prepared to miss him, too. That’s the worst part. Gramps isn’tGrampsanymore.”

Nash’s forehead wrinkles. “That’s really hard. It sucks so bad, losing the people who are supposed to still be here.”

He breaks eye contact, his voice fading with the wind. The way Nash says this, the emotion in his voice, it’s so genuine and I don’t think we’re talking about my grandparents anymore. I have no clue what he means. These aren’t the conversations he and Kels have.

I know Nash worries his parents won’t let him go to NYU. He knows Kels has a complicated relationship with the wordhome. But it occurs to me, here on this swing—we don’t let ourselves getsadaround each other. We thrive on sarcasm, banter, and angst.

After Grams died, talking to Nash was an escape because he didn’t know.

Maybe Kels is Nash’s escape too.

Who has Nash lost? How can I even ask?

His phone buzzes and he pulls it out to check the message.

“I’m okay,” I say. “They must be—”

He shoves his phone into his pocket. “I’m good here.”

Me too. It’s honestly a revelation, how comfortable I am in this moment.

“You know,” he says, “this is the first conversation we’ve had where you don’t have The Look on your face.”

“What look?”

He scuffs the toe of his Chucks against the mulch. “I don’t know. You always look at me like you’d rather eat broccoli or something than engage in a conversation.”

I roll my eyes. “If you want me to stroke your ego, that’s not—”

Nash shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

“So, what is it?” I ask, surprised by how much I want to know.

“Why is your broccoli face only for me?”

I shake my head. “Stop saying that. For the record, I like broccoli. Olives, though—”

“Not the point.”

“Nash.”

“Halle.”

“You’re not broccoli.”

Nash opens his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzes again.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s Molly. Your brother is looking for you. And Molly, apparently, is looking for me.”

I stand up and smooth down my skirt, then glance at my watch. It’s later than I thought. “I guess we should probably—”

“Probably,” Nash says. “You okay?”

I nod, following Nash back toward the warmth of the house. Away from the magical three-slide playground, away from the shadows and saying too many things and not enough at the same time. Away from telling Nash he’s not broccoli.

Inside, Gramps is sitting at the head of the Jacobsons’ table withOllie by his side. A half-eaten piece of apple pie is in front of Gramps and he’s laughing with another Old Man Friend, but something is up. He’s slumped in the chair, his hands hanging over the arms. When he leans forward and scoops a piece of apple pie sloppily into his mouth, drops of vanilla ice cream drip onto his lap.

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