Page 53 of Perfectly Grumpy

“To be honest, I haven’t read fantasy in ages. But I’ve read Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. What about you?”

“It’s all I read as a kid,” he says, staring at the rows of diapers like he’s thinking of magical kingdoms rather than looking at smiling babies in diapers. “Tolkien, Lewis, Robert Jordan, Le Guin, Sanderson.”

“So you’re like…one of those fantasy nerds?” I ask, feeling like Tate is a secret book where I find out something new on every page.

“That depends. Do you like fantasy nerds?” he asks with a smirk.

I laugh and look away, partially because I don’t want him to see how he affects me.

“What?” he asks, completely unaware.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t believe it was possible.”

He blinks. “Hey, even fantasy nerds can occasionally have charm. It’s rare, but it does happen.”

“Remember that for the family reunion because you’re gonna need to pull out your charm when Granny’s around.”

He groans. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” I say, stopping in the middle of the canned-fruit aisle. “My grandmother loves a man who says all the right things.”

Tate narrows his eyes. “Define ‘all the right things.’ Because clearly, my idea of charm isn’t exactly standard.”

“Just be yourself,” I say. “You don’t try to be charming, you just are.”

He holds my gaze for a little too long, leaving my heart to do a funny tumble. I turn back to the applesauce jars just to make it stop.

He reaches for an extra-large one on the top shelf, and I notice the bracelet on his wrist, the one he always wears with the four beads. It looks like something a kid made.

“Who gave you that?” I ask, nodding toward the bracelet.

“A child in the hospital,” he says.

“I’ve never seen you take it off.”

“I don’t.” He pushes the cart forward, looking away from me like the canned fruit is more interesting.

“Why not?” I ask, suddenly curious.

“She had cancer, like my little sister,” he says. “I wear it to remember my sibling.”

I’m so thrown by his quiet confession that I don’t have words. Or maybe I do—but suddenly they feel fragile and inadequate, like something delicate I’m afraid to fracture if I say the wrong thing.

He forces the cart ahead, the squeaky wheel piercing the awkward silence. “Tate, I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.”

I know it’s not enough, but I can’t just say nothing, the way people try to avoid the subject of grief around me.

He shrugs. “You don’t need to apologize. I didn’t tell you before.”

“When did she…”

“I was ten,” he interrupts. “That’s why I started reading fantasy books. My parents were busy, and I needed to escape.”

It all makes sense now.Why he’s always so safe. Why he keeps his guard up. Why he does everything in a logical order, because grief makes your whole life feel out of control.

“I think it’s really sweet that you still wear it,” I say.

He stops, his hand resting on the cart’s handle, and I reach over, turning the four beads so I can read them. “It saysHOPE.”

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