Page 3 of If Love Had A Manual

I listen to this podcast every week. Religiously. And lately, I’m starting to think half the listener letters are made up. I mean, who signs a napkin contract to fake-date someone for a week and then asks a podcast host for advice? Come on.

Still, I eat it up every time.

Maybe I’ve always had a soft spot for love, or at least the idea of it, even when the world tried to harden it out of me.

I guess you’re always one step closer to the right person…or the next wrong one. Whichever. At this point, a chaotic, borderline-obsessive kind of love that smothers me doesn’t sound so bad.

The outro music swells, and I find myself sittingthere with the engine running, staring at the white facade of the Riverside Assisted Living Facility. My gaze catches on a couple of potted plants by the entrance. It’s some attempt to liven up the place, but even the daisies look a little dried out in the summer morning air.

Cutting the engine, I grab my purse and climb out. I’m already clammy. We’re in that weird seasonal limbo. Technically, it’s autumn, but Mother Nature’s still holding onto summer like a clingy ex.

“Morning, Lena!” Doris, one of the nurses, waves at me from the sidewalk where she’s sneaking a smoke break. She’s wearing pale pink scrubs and a lanyard that readsNursing is a Work of Heartin loopy letters.

“Morning.” I wiggle my fingers at her and push through the front doors. The air conditioning greets me immediately, along with a mix of coffee, disinfectant, and something I’ve never quite been able to identify. It’s not unpleasant, just institutional.

The lobby is buzzing with early activity. A few residents cluster around the front desk, murmuring over coffee cups and newspapers. One of them, Mr. Rossi, grins at me with a twinkle in his eye. He’s always trying to coax me into a conversation about the “good old days”.

I wave politely but keep moving.

Sorry, Mr. Rossi, but I don’t have time today.

I weave down the hallway like I’ve done a thousand times, my footsteps echoing on the polished linoleum. This place is oddly comforting. Some days, it feels more like home than my apartment. People here know me, and I know them.

I pause in front of the familiar door. A piece of paper withFrank Addicetyped in bold is taped justabove the nameplate. Grandpa. My favorite person in the universe.

Knocking twice, I let myself in. The room is tidy yet lived-in. A small TV sits next to a side table cluttered with puzzle books, an old photograph of Grandma in a silver frame, and another of my mother just after she gave birth to me. Her dark hair falls around her face, and her smile is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. My chest aches at the sight.

Grandpa is perched in bed, glasses sliding down his nose as he peers at the sports section of his newspaper.

“Alright, old man,” I say, propping one hand on my hip. “Try to act like you missed me.”

He grunts but doesn’t look up. “Took you long enough. You must’ve been busy locking lips with that fancy boyfriend of yours.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Grandpa. I was passionately making out with my steering wheel in the parking lot.” I shuffle closer, fluffing his pillows while I choose to ignore his groans of protest. “Now, did you eat breakfast, or am I about to interrogate the nurses?”

Grandpa lifts his head, feigning righteous indignation. “Course I ate. I’m not a child.”

I stop fussing over him to arch an eyebrow.

“Speaking of children,” he goes on. “Have you figured out how babies are made yet?”

“Seriously?”

“Just checking. At the rate you’re going, I’m starting to think you forgot entirely.”

“Ha, ha,” I mutter dryly.

I can’t exactly disagree. It’s not that I don’t want to date; I’ve just been too busy to bother. College was normal enough. I dated a bit, went out sometimes, and tried the whole typical student thing. But while myfriends were partying every weekend, I was home watching my little sister, trying to pretend our father’s dismissive silence wasn’t slowly killing me.

Staying on campus wasn’t an option, not with how expensive housing was, and we lived just a twenty-minute drive from the university. It didn’t make sense to move out then. But eventually, it just got too heavy to keep holding it all together. Two years ago, I finally got my own apartment. Sure, it took two jobs—waiting tables and nannying part-time—to afford rent and bills, but at least I had my own space.

“I asked if you had eaten?” I remind him.

He gives in with a sigh. “Fine. Itriedto eat, but whatever slop they’re serving today tastes like boiled cardboard.”

I glance at the tray on the rolling table beside his bed. Uneaten scrambled eggs stare back at me. “You’d think after your stroke last year, you’d be more careful,” I tell him, nudging the plate. “At least cardboard is a step up from thewet sockcomplaint you gave me last time.”

“I’m glad you find my suffering so entertaining. Anyway, did you bring it or not?”

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