Page 32 of Rosé with My Fake Fiancé
She tilts her head, studying me. “You like her.”
“Yes. But she’s living in The Algarve, and when I ask if I can see her again, she gives me excuses.”
“What is the line? Maybe she’s not that into you?”
I shove a piece of bread in my mouth instead of arguing.
“Couldn’t you fly to visit her? It’s not far.”
“I’d have to take time off work and time away from you. Plus, the costs of flying...”
Mémé sighs. “You never make it easy on yourself, do you? Too many jobs—”
“I learned from you.”
She points at me, squinting. “—too many women that don’t live here, the insistence on getting your own apartment when you could easily live with me.”
“You deserve space,” I insist. I’d lived with Mémé up until a few months ago. All it took was one time walking in on my grandmother with a man over to realize that I was well past due for having my own place.
“When am I going to see it?”
I groan inwardly. I can’t put this off much longer. “I’m still getting settled in.”
She waggles a finger at me. “You’ve put it off long enough. Come on.”
She stands and dumps the rest of her tea into the sink.
“What? Now?”
“Yes, now. Enough pushing it off. Let’s go.” Mémé pokes me with a stern finger like she used to do, finding the sensitive spot under my armpit that normally makes me laugh and run away. But this time, I grab her hand and stay serious.
“It’s fine, Mémé. It’s just an apartment.”
She squints at me. “Is your apartment a shithole?”
I choke on air. “That’s not—it’s not that bad.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She stares at me for a moment and then spins on her heel. “I need a cigarette.” Mémé doesn’t smoke in front of me much, and she knows my stance on her smoking, but we’ve come to a truce about it. She settles into her chair by the front window, which is open.
“Your apartment is a mess, you work three jobs, and you are worried about paying for plane tickets to Portugal. Don’t you have savings?”
“I have emergency savings.”
“Hmm... I guess it would be bad financial advice to call young love an emergency.”
I choke on my wine. “We’re not in love,” I insist. “I just...like her. A lot.”
“But not enough to fly to Portugal.”
“I want to go,” I say. “Visiting her is not entirely about the money.”
“Okay.” Mémé gestures with her cigarette. “One problem at a time. Go into my bedroom. There’s a shoebox on the dresser. Bring that out here.”
I obey her orders. The shoebox is light in my hands; there definitely aren’t shoes in it.
When I set the box down in front of her, she reaches her hands across the table. I take her hands in mine, and she gives me a small smile. “I know that when you came to live with us, money was tight. I can’t imagine how your home life before coming to us affected you. But you need to stop worrying about me. I’m careful with money and living well within my means now.”
“Well within your means? But you’re always saving food and containers and shoe boxes,” I gesture at the one in front of me.
