Page 40 of Perfectly Grumpy

I twirl Mom’s ring as I look over the Bear Creek Lodge, a sprawling log cabin with a wraparound porch and enough bedrooms for our entire family. The yard is perfect for our Family Olympics, with hiking trails through the woods behind the house. Most years, this place held my sweetest memories—shared meals, campfires, late-night pranks, and friendly competitions. But this year, I can’t even think about those memories.

Every time I picture myself here, Mom is beside me, laughing over a private joke, trash-talking me in a game, and sharing her homemade pies. I thought one year would be enough to heal, enough time to pull together the broken pieces of my heart.

How wrong I was.

Nobody told me the truth about grief—that you’re never really over it. You just learn to keep breathing, to put one foot in front of the other, and to navigate what everyone insists on calling your “new normal.”

And that’s another thing no one tells you. How much you’llhate the term “new normal.” Because nothing is normal after grief.

The only reason I’m here is because of a promise I made. A promise I wish didn’t cause a dull ache inside my chest.

Before getting out of the car, I take a deep breath and whisper, “This one’s for you, Mom.”

When I step inside the house, hauling my rolling case behind me, Olivia is already organizing her list of schedules and room assignments, looking like she’s had way too much fun with colored paper and matching sticky notes.

“Hey, Liv. You look incredibly organized, as usual.” I drop my luggage by the table. “So, who am I rooming with this year?” I’m hoping for one of the quiet cousins.

Olivia flips through the pages, hesitates, then glances up at me, her expression suddenly concerned. “Um, we’ve had a last-minute change to the roommate assignments.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’m not picky.” As long as they don’t snore or stay up all night.

“I just found out about this yesterday.” Olivia bites her lip and frowns. “And he was supposed to tell you himself.”

My stomach knots. “Who…tell mewhat?”

Before she can answer, a familiar voice cuts in behind me, “Hi, sweetie.”

When I turn around, Dad is standing in the doorway in a golf shirt and khaki shorts. He actually looks put together for the first time in months, probably since Mom died.

“Hi, Dad. I’ve missed you,” I say, giving him a hug. It’s not until I step back that I notice someone is standing behind him.

“I wanted to introduce you to someone,” he says. “Lauren, this is Patty.”

Patty steps forward to shake my hand. Her bobbed blonde hair curls around her pleasant face and tentative smile. She tucks a curl behind her ear with a perfectly manicured pink nail.

“Oh, hi,” I say, confused about who this woman is and what she’s doing with my father.

“I’ve told Patty so much about you and Olivia,” Dad says, as if this is a sufficient explanation.

“It’s so great to meet you both,” Patty chirps.

She steps next to my father and their arms brush. Not in an accidental way, but like they’re a little more than friends. Then my dad puts his hand on Patty’s back and begins rubbing circles on it.

I stare at them, speechless, my eyes ping-ponging between the two of them before the realization hits me.Is this…Dad’s new girlfriend?

“Oh,” is all I can manage as I try to process this new information.

My father has a girlfriend.

Dad clears his throat. “And I hope you don’t mind, but since we’re a bit tight on rooms this year, I suggested Patty could share with you. It’s just for the week, and there’s a double bed?—”

I’d be sharing a bed with my dad’s new girlfriend whom I’ve known for approximately thirty seconds?

“Hope that’s okay,” Patty adds, smiling like we’re about to embark on a girls’ sleepover. “I do wear a CPAP mask for my sleep apnea, but the machine’s not too loud once you get used to it. And I’m an early riser, just like your dad says you are!”

Like my dad says I am? How much has he been talking about me to this woman I’ve never even met? Even if I could get past sharing a bed with a complete stranger, I’m a notoriously light sleeper. Mom used to joke that I could hear her breathe from three rooms away. A CPAP machine would keep me up all week.

I force a smile, trying to hide my shock. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

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