Page 18 of The Broken Heart Playlist
Well, now I know where we won’t be every Thursday night.
Lisset glances up from her blissful stroking of the greyhound. “We live right across the road from you, Gideon,” she offers eagerly.
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to close my eyes.
“Do you?” Gideon responds, and I swear I glimpse the shadow of a smile. “So, we’re neighbors.”
Before my daughter divulges any more personal information, like our bank account details or the password to my phone, I state firmly, “We better get going.”
Gideon holds my gaze for a beat, the warmth in his expression unsettling me. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” My voice lacks conviction, my meaning clear as ice in that one word.
And Gideon responds to my abruptness in the strangest way. He smiles at me, his hazel eyes taking on a gleam as though he’s looking forward to the challenge of proving me wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On Saturday, Grandma calls while I’m in my kitchen putting together a salad for lunch. I put her on speaker. My first mistake.
“Hey, Grandma.”
“Want to watch a movie with me tonight?” she asks, eagerness making her sound a little asthmatic.
No, I don’t. Not at all. I love my grandmother with all my heart, but watching a movie with her is a torturous test of endurance, since she insists on hauling Google into the TV room with us. And then she feels compelled to ask it questions while the movie is playing.Hey, Google, is the director still alive? Hey, Google, how old is the actor in the movie? Hey, Google, did the movie win any awards?
It drives me crazy.
When I suggest we remove Google from the room, her only response is, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
“A movie?” I ask, stalling. “It’s a Saturday night.”
“Perfect!” she responds. “You’re not working and Lisset doesn’t have school tomorrow.”
My second mistake.
“We can watch a Clint Eastwood classic,” Grandma suggests. “Or maybeDawn of the Dead. I’m in the mood for some zombie killings.”
“That sounds like quite the evening,” I manage. “But I have Lisset with me. She’s not really ready for zombies.”
“Even better!” Grandma says excitedly. “We can watchParent Trap. It’s a great movie.”
Of course, that’s the moment Lisset wanders into the kitchen.
“I LOVEParent Trap!” she declares, and just like that I’m committed.
My sole intention on Sunday is to relax, especially after a Saturday evening spent with my grandmother watching a movie where Google turned out to be the main character. Never have I wanted to take a hammer to a machine as much as I did last night.
Lisset and I are currently in the middle of a fierce Monopoly game. It looks like my ruthless daughter, who clearly harbors ambitions to be a property magnate, is winning.
Winter sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the furniture in a pearly gray glow. Lisset and I made blueberry pancakes for breakfast and we’ll put together sandwiches for lunch after she’s finished destroying me. Days like this that unfurl at their own pace are my favorite, and I’m soaking up a rare feeling of contentment.
Lisset is demanding I pay up for landing on her property when the doorbell rings.
“Hey, neighbor,” Gideon greets me when I open the door.
Surprise sweeps through me to find him standing on my front porch looking big and intimidating wearing black sweatpants and a blue hoodie.
“Hi,” I respond automatically. I’m acutely conscious that my white sweater sports a blueberry stain right where my boob is. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
