Chapter 6: : Chapter 6

What is this?”

“Je-sus,” Theo mutters, but I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on the writing, or how his eyes widen once he reads it. His eyes jump to Paul.

“So you know everything,” I say triumphantly.

Theo ignores me, his attention on his granddad. “You two had a honeymoon planned out?”

Paul nods. “Before things ended, we planned a road trip for the summertime. We were going to elope as soon as school was out and then go on our way. That was Kat’s stab at the plan, but I had it in my head we’d go all the way across the country and back. Take all summer before we settled back in LA.”

He says this with a fondness I can’t understand. My heart hurts just thinking about it, knowing it never happened.

“That’s a little more premeditated than the ‘we were crazy kids in love who thought, screw it, let’s do this’ story you told me.”

“The timeline was fast, Teddy,” Paul says. “We had about a month to plan for it—eloping, the honeymoon, our life after—before she had to leave. Your interpretation isn’t wrong.”

Theo and I exchange a look. I can’t even revel in the curiosity lighting up his face now; I’m feeling it, too. He may know more than me, but we both want to know it all.

Leaning in, his eyes travel down to the map. Circles dot the western portion: Yosemite, Zion National Park, the Grand Canyon, and Sedona, among others. I trace the route with my finger, feeling the give in the paper where Gram traced the route with her pen.

A breeze picks up, winding under my hair, and I close my eyes, imagining it’s her fingers whispering down my neck, the same way she’d do to help me fall asleep. I have no idea where people go when they die, but sometimes I swear I can feel her. Right now, I do.

The thought enters my mind like someone yelling it:

My gaze flits up to the sky, and I shift in my seat, lowering my eyes to trace the route again. Curiosity and restlessness wrap around my heart like vines. What would it be like to follow in footsteps she never actually took? Would I be chasing a ghost? Or would she feel closer than ever?

“I want to ask you a million more questions,” I admit.

“I’m an old man and don’t quite have the stamina for lengthy storytelling anymore . . .” At this, Paul slides a look to Theo, whose eyes roll in reluctant amusement. Paul’s grin turns sly, and his gaze bounces between the two of us before he focuses on me. “But I’m happy to give you answers. I’m afraid it’ll just take some time, if you have it.”

“I really, really do.” Theo takes note of my wistful tone and raises an eyebrow, but I push on before he can ask questions of his own. “I’m curious about something you said last time—that you didn’t get along at first. Obviously you ended up loving each other deeply if you were going to get married without Gram’s family’s approval. What changed?”

Paul laughs. “

. We realized that first impressions don’t dictate what the final impression will be. Once we opened ourselves up to truly knowing each other, it was easy to fall.”

Again, he splits a look between Theo and me. In a rare act of agreement, we ignore it.

“You also mentioned there were more letters?”

“Yes, as I said, we enjoyed writing to each other. She wrote me sassy notes in class before we started dating, too.”

I perk up, delighted. “You don’t have any of those, do you? I’d love to see.”

“Why, so you can take notes?” Theo murmurs.

“Don’t need to. I’d say it right to your face,” I murmur back with a sharp grin that curls his mouth into a wicked shape.

If Paul hears the exchange, he doesn’t react. He pulls the box toward him with a hum. “Let me see.”

I fold the map while Paul riffles through the box contents. Across the table, Theo is watching all of this with an inscrutable expression. His gaze lingers on me until I start squirming in my seat. When I wipe at my face, searching for errant crumbs, he smirks.

“What?” I mouth.

He shakes his head, and I watch, fascinated, as his lips pout around his response: “You.”

Like a sparkler bursting from a single flame, my mind erupts with countless meanings for one word.

The urge to ask him what the hell he means wars with the refusal to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s sent me spinning. But he reads it on my face, like it’s written in a language he created, and that smirk turns into a full-out grin.

Time and distance will make you forget, but I’ve never had enough of either to forget the way Theo Spencer can aggravate every nerve in my body with the twist of his mouth.

I nod my chin, forcefully banking the heat he’s stoked in my body. “What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day? More vegetable planting? Some remote CFO-ing while you’re elbow-deep in cukes and tomatoes?”

He doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect him to. I anticipate the way his smile falls, the way his gaze moves past me, and I feel a pang of . . . regret? No. I’m not going to feel sorry for him, even if I’m beginning to see that work is a wound for him. I’m sure his feature in soothes the ache.

“Oh, I have some zucchini going in, too,” Paul says cheerfully, pulling out a stack of papers.

I match his tone, just to irritate Theo. Sure enough, he snorts when I say, “Sounds delicious!”

“When everything starts coming in in a few months, I’ll put together a salad for us.”

“That sounds really nice.”

My throat goes suddenly tight at just how nice it sounds, to have someone who knew Gram in a way that feels new to me who calls me sweetheart, whose ’s have a slight whistle to them, a sound brushed over with age. A grandparent, though I can’t call him mine.

Paul holds up a piece of paper triumphantly, then hands it over. “Found one.”

Theo rises from his seat and circles the table, sitting next to me. I give him a sidelong glance. “You really want to read this?”

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s my family, too, right? Might as well.”

Not quite as obsessive as my thought process, but he has a point. This is a tie that binds us, for better or worse.

With a sigh, I return my attention to the paper. But the handwriting stops me short.

I didn’t realize how emotional it would be to see Gram’s writing again. It got spidery in later years, but this is still the hand that wrote her love for me on birthday cards every year, when I got my first period in seventh grade (she got me a cake, too, chocolate with red frosting), when my tennis team won district champs my junior year. She said it out loud, too, so often I still hear it sometimes when it’s really quiet and very late.

I didn’t keep most of those cards. After she died, we found every one we ever gave her stashed in a series of storage bins. I sped back to my apartment in the city, tore through my room, my roommate hovering in my doorway while I tried to find any cards she’d given me over the years. I finally found a few, and they’re tucked into my nightstand now. But I regret every one I ever discarded thinking I had an infinite supply of them.

This note is a gift for so many reasons, and my blurred gaze moves to Paul. “It doesn’t have to be today, but can I read anything else she wrote you? Her handwriting . . .” I swallow hard. “I miss it, and this makes me feel like I’m getting to know her in a different way.”

It’s too revealing, especially with Theo sitting right next to me, his gaze heavy on my face. But I can’t care about that right now. I want it all.

“Of course,” Paul says gently. “I’ll organize them so you can read them in chronological order for next time. I’d be happy to tell you the story alongside them.”

I give him a watery smile. “That’d be perfect.”

Theo’s knee presses into mine. “C’mon, get reading, Shep. I’m way ahead of you.”

I huff out a breath, blinking away my tears. “It’s not a contest, Spencer.”

“Isn’t it always with us?”

When I look over at him, his expression shifts from something undefinable into a challenging smirk.

“Because you make it that way,” I mutter under my breath, then focus back on the letter.

Incredible. Gram could have taught a masterclass on how to infuse deadly disdain into one word.

“You weren’t kidding about her not liking you at first,” I say with a laugh.

Paul grins, his dimple popping. “And yet, weeks later we were dating.”

“Who could resist that charm of yours?”

He laughs, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m going to take a little rest now, but don’t leave on my account. Teddy has hours of work to do.”

“Great to hear,” Theo says dryly.

My gaze flits to him and then away. “I should probably get back to work . . . ing from home. My work at home.” It takes everything in me not to close my eyes over the mess I just made of that statement. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me today.”

Paul squeezes my hand with a kind smile. I still see so much of Theo in it, though the emotion is completely different. “Feel free to come by this weekend. We’ll dive into those letters.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Theo rises from his seat. “So, what, is this going to be a regular thing?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure this schedule mix-up is a onetime deal. No more unexpected run-ins.” I wink over at Paul. “Right?”

He puts on a bewildered expression. “I’m still not sure what happened.”

“Mm-hmm.” Theo’s skepticism is clear, but he doesn’t say more. Still, he doesn’t look pleased by the plans Paul and I have just made.

I don’t care if Theo wants to share. I’m going to take every minute Paul will give me. It’s one more minute I have with Gram.

Despite his apparent allergy to spending time with me (which is returned), Theo insists on walking me out. It’s not until we step out the front door that I remember the Bronco.

I stop in front of it. “Oh fuck. Is this your car?”

God, I really need to learn to regulate my brain-to-mouth filter.

Theo nods. “That’s Betty.”

“She’s gorgeous,” I sigh, running a finger over the paint, daydreaming about driving her down Highway 1 along the water with my hair flying everywhere, all of my worries and sadness whipping out of my body into the salty air.

“Yeah.” His voice is low and close. I turn my head, and he’s right there, his gaze bouncing to where I’m touching his car.

But I swear it bounced from my face.

I let out a breath, realizing belatedly Theo is still talking.

“. . . The first thing I bought when we started making money off of Where To Next. Anton and Matias—those are the other founders—” He says this like I don’t know every goddamned thing about his dumb company. “They put down payments on their places in the city, but all I wanted was this car.” He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, running a palm over its side like I imagine he would over a woman’s hip. A craving in the midst of being satisfied. “Took me a few months to track the right one down.”

“This is my dream car, you know.” My tone comes out more accusatory than I want, but when Theo raises an eyebrow, I raise mine right back. I don’t know what it is about him; I want to fight. I want that spike in my blood reminding me I’m capable of emotions that aren’t heavy and flat.

“Was I supposed to avoid it, then?”

“You could’ve gone with something cliché, like a Porsche or a Maserati. A 1970 . . .” I trail off expectantly.

“ ’77,” he supplies, amused.

“A 1977 Ford Bronco, perfectly restored in ? Give me a break. That’s specific.” I squint at him, only half joking. “Did I mention this to you in high school once or something? Is this some twisted gotcha?”

“That would be a long con, considering I had no idea I’d ever see you again when I bought it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Your crush isn’t special, Shep. Lots of people have boners for Broncos.”

“I bet you have a car club called Boners for Broncos, you big nerd,” I say.

He pushes his hat up his forehead, and the sun hits his face, illuminating his eyes. There’s a starburst of lighter blue around the pupil, and against the depth of the rest of his iris it looks almost silver, like moonlight touching the ocean. “Don’t be mad just because I got something you wanted.”

It takes all my willpower not to suck in a breath. He hit his mark, but I don’t want him to know it’s true. He’s got I want: success, accolades, a life with direction. Even this car.

I hitch my purse up my shoulder, my heart beating hard. “I’d love to know where you get your attitude from. It’s certainly not from your angel of a granddad.”

He laughs, but it’s humorless. “That’s a gift from my dad.” I don’t get a chance to process or respond. He turns, lifting two fingers over his shoulder as he walks back inside. “Bye, Shepard.”

“Yeah, bye,” I mutter, taking one last look at his annoyingly beautiful ass. “Hopefully for good this time.”