Page 8 of What I Like About You

“You can repaint. Any color you want.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

Gramps’s shoulders relax as he approaches Scout, who’s standing at the end of the bed, tail wagging. She blends in so well with the clothes when she’s curled up in a ball and sleeping, I honestly forgot she was here. Gramps scratches her ears and my brain is in overdrive, trying to figure out what to say next, what words to form when Gramps seems sort of okay, to broach the topic that’s the hardest.

“Her books?” I blurt out.

Gramps flinches. “Boxed up in the garage.”

I nod. “Can I—?”

Gramps is gone before the question fully forms.

Of course, I said the wrong thing. Ialwayssay the wrong thing. It’s just—I needed to know. The absence of Grams’s bookshelves and the hundreds—no,thousands—of stories that lined them? It’s a tragedy.

I close my eyes and clutch Grams’shamsacharm.

I open my eyes, exhale a shaky breath, and power on my laptop.

The screen comes to life, full brightness, and my pulsesteadies as I type in my password. I can at least focus on the blog and checking to see if I got this cover reveal email, things that aren’t totally out of my hands. Except my inbox isn’t refreshing, and I notice my laptop is refusing to connect to Wi-Fi. Weird. It worked fine last summer, when we stayed in Middleton for three weeks. It should automatically connect, but of the six routers that appear, none are familiar.

I close my laptop and venture to ask Gramps. Also because I can only be surrounded by orange for so long. It’s too loud. Impossible to focus. Ollie’s already shut into Dad’s room, J. Cole blasting from his new speakers as I head down the stairs.

I park myself on the living room couch and open my laptop again. There’s so much to do, but connecting to Wi-Fi is priority number one. Tomorrow’s posts need to be edited; tweets need to be scheduled. Once all One True Pastry–related duties have been conquered, tonight is for organizing, sweatpants, Netflix with Ollie and hopefully Gramps, and catching up with my friends.

“Hey, Gramps?”

“Huh?” he yells from the adjacent kitchen.

“Did you get a new internet router?” I ask.

“Nope!”

I place my laptop down on the coffee table and peek my head into the kitchen. Gramps is sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating popcorn. Like a newspaper is popcorn-worthy entertainment.

“Then where’s the old one?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

Gramps shrugs. “My desktop is hardwired. So I didn’t need it anymore, you know?”

I soften.“Gramps.”

He doesn’t look up from the newspaper and my heart shatters. Even Wi-Fi is triggering and everything about being here is suddenlytoo much. Why did I think this was a good idea? How can I possibly live in the house that has been stripped of every memory, of everything I love? Except Gramps. But even Gramps isn’tGramps.

“I know you kids need it for school,” Gramps says. “It’s getting reinstalled next week.”

“I have some things I have to take care of, like, right now,” I say.

Translation: I need to get out of herenow. I can’t be offline for aweek. And I can’t run One True Pastry from my phone.

“Then go to the library.” Gramps says, not even looking up.

And wow, his indifference? Ithurts.

But I want to go. Ineedto go.

“Okay. Well, I’ll be back before dinner.…” I run upstairs for my backpack. Then remember that I left my laptop in the living room, so I double back and shove it inside the sleeve, then tuck the sleeve inside the backpack. Zip backpack. Retie shoelaces. Yell up to Ollie that I’ll be with the books, which he’ll get if he even hears me.Get out of here.

I dash out the door, craving my Kels life like a drug.

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