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โ
I settle next to Thomas on the edge of my bed. After our tangle outside, he demanded to know what was up. We brought the party upstairs so I could walk him through everything privately. Now, Iโve got the stack of pictures in my hand, and Paulโs letter is unfolded on my duvet.
โYes, for the fifth time, I did.โ
Thomas looks up from my phone, his eyebrows raised high. โFirst of all, the production value is incredible.โ
I sigh.
He reaches over to adjust the frozen peas Iโm holding against my head. โSeriously, this is great, Beans. That company did you a favor laying you off.โ He tilts his head, tapping the phone screen. โBut we already know youโre not utilizing your true talents.โ
I smack his hand away, ignoring his well-meaning jab. Photography is on the back burner indefinitely. โFew peopleโs true talents lie in basic data entry. And if my talentsย didย lie there, Iโd ask you to go back in time to when you nearly drowned me in Gramโs pool and finish the job.โ
โI was seven,โ he responds defensively. โIt was an accident.โ โAnything can be on purpose if you try hard enough.โ
โOkay, letโs focus here.โ He absently fiddles with the thin gold hoop in his nose. โGram really had a side dude?โ
โHe wasnโt a side dude. She must have dated him before Grandpa, and he was clearly very important to her. They were going to elope, for godโs
sake. That letter makes it seem like she was the love of his life!โ
Thomas grabs the letter from me, scanning it, then thumbs through the pictures. I watch how his expression changes carefully, from curiosity to surprise to something heavier. His thumb moves over Gramโs smiling face, and he swallows as he sets it down, then picks up the letter again. โWhereโd you find all this?โ
โIt was in one of the boxes in Gramโs garage. Dad brought a bunch of them over, remember?โ
โAh, right, the boxes youโve been raccooning through.โ
I elbow him hard. He elbows me harder, sending the peas flying out of my hand.
Heโs not far off, though. Iโve spent the past couple months picking through the boxes Dad brought home when he and my three uncles cleared Gramโs house out. He came back from the task red-eyed and quiet, put the boxes in the garage, and hasnโt touched them since.
Besides his assertion that Grandpa Joe was Gramโs one and only, itโs how I know heโs never seen any of this. The letter and photos were stuffed at the bottom of a box in a big manila envelope. Aย sealedย envelope. I mean, hello, suspicious. I get my insatiable curiosity from him.
Or maybe we both get it from Gram. Our Tell Me a Secret game started when I was old enough to have any. We traded secrets like currency, always an even-steven deal. Mine started out small and inconsequential, growing as I grew, too. I talked to her about relationships, anxiety, school woes, and, later, my struggle to adjust to the disorienting letdown of adulthood. She ended up knowing everythingโshe was my secret-keeper, my living diary.
Given how our game deepened once I was an adult, Paul shouldโve come up in conversation. Iโm still the only one who knows she and Grandpa Joe went through a rough patch in the eighties, that the โerrandsโ theyโd sometimes sneak off for were actually an excuse to get it on in the car. She knewย everyย juicy detail about my relationships. Why didnโt I know this man existed? Did she not want to tell me specifically, or was it something about the story itself that kept her silent? Either way, it stings. Itโs a small betrayal to the rules of our game.
If thereโs a reason she held back, I need to know.
I take my phone from Thomas, scrolling down to the comment that still has my heart racing like a hummingbirdโs wings.
thatโs my grandfather.
Dozens of responses cascade below it, a waterfall ofย OMGs andย YโALL ITโS HAPPENINGs.
The million-dollar question is what, exactly, is happening? This person could be lying. They could be telling the truth, but Paul could refuse to speak to me. He may not remember anything. User34035872 could have difficulty distinguishing between past and present tense, and Paul could actually be dead.
Thomas rests his chin on my shoulder. โWhat are you going to do?โ
His voice is knowing, though, because he knows me. Itโs what heโd do, too. Weโre nearly identical, save for his irritatingly beautiful eyes and his propensity to be a shithead. We have a mile-wide impulsive streak, a competitive spirit bordering on homicidal, and a dedicatedย itโs fine!ย optimism that gets us through when hasty decisions go south.
I touch the username, which brings me to a blank profile. No posts, no followers.
โKinda sus,โ Thomas murmurs.
I pull up the send message function anyway, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time in months.
And I type out a message to Paulโs alleged grandkid.
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,ย salad she ordered while I grabbed a table outside the restaurant. Overhead, the midday sun is pale in the rich springtime sky.
I pull off the top of the container with a happy sigh. โYouโre an angel, Sadie Choi. I Venmoed you.โ
Lovingly full-naming her doesnโt offer the distraction I hoped for. Her eyebrows drop into a frown. โWhat did I tell you about your sneaky Venmo tactics? Stop paying me back for things I want to pay for.โ
I spear a bite of lettuce and chicken, my cheeks heating. โI canโt have a twenty-dollar pity salad on my conscience, okay?โ
Though sheโs wearing white heart-shaped sunglasses, I know her brown eyes are soft behind the lenses. โThereโs no such thing as pity between best friends. I love treating you, and Iโm the one who invited you today in anticipation of good news from your interview. So, just so you know, Iโm going to decline your payment.โ
โJust soย youย know, the interview was a bust.โ I give her a breezy grin that belies my panic. Sitting in that stuffy conference room while the hiring manager listed tasks boring enough to make my soul shrivel up, I wondered for the four hundredth time why the hell I canโt figure out how to adult successfully.
Sadie pushes a strand of straight black, chin-length hair behind her heavily adorned ear. โAll the more reason to treat you.โ
โIf you want to treat me, give me copious amounts of free alcohol.โ
Her response is interrupted by my phone chiming. I look down, inhaling sharply, and anticipation dumps into my veins. Itโs a TikTok message notification.
โSaved by the bell?โ โLiterally.โ
After several days of back-and-forth with who Iโve confirmed is Paulโs grandson, every notification comes with a fight-or-flight chaser. In addition to exchanging messages, heโs sent through several pictures of a man who matches up to the Paul in Gramโs photos.
Yesterday I asked if Paul would be willing to speak with me. I nearly chickened out, and the silence I got in return made me question my brazenness. Though I wouldnโt call Paulโs grandson a prolific pen palโhis responses are short, leached of personality, very bot-likeโhis turnaround time has been quick.
Until now. Twenty-six hours heโs let my request hang. Iโm almost afraid to open his reply.
โGet it together, Noelle,โ I mutter as Thomas joins us, a plastic bag swinging from his fingertips. He and Sadie both work in downtown San Francisco, though Thomas works from home two days a week. When I livedโand workedโin the city, we met up often for lunch and happy hours.
Thomas slides into a seat, pushing his hair from his forehead. Itโs a lost cause; itโs thick and getting surfer-boy long, so gravity always pulls it back. โHey, kids. This lunch is officially the best part of my day thanks to you.โ He flashes a brilliant smile at Sadie, then turns to me. โAnd youโre here, too.โ
I roll my eyes. Sadie technically belonged to Thomas first; they met during college and immediately fell head over ass for each other. But as soon as she and I met, it was clear we were the ones who were meant to be. Thomas and I have spent the past five years vying for Sadieโs ultimate affection. Iโm confident Iโm losing, but it doesnโt stop me from trying, if only to annoy my brother.
After leaning over to accept Thomasโs kiss, her attention returns to me.
She brandishes her fork at my phone. โOpen the message!โ
Thomas rustles around in his plastic bag, pulling out a sandwich and a bag of chips. โWhat message?โ
โPaulโs grandson wrote her back.โ
โTeddy?โ Somehow his mouth is already full of chips, and they spray out in a disgusting arc.
Sadieโs eyebrow raises. โTeddy?โ
Iโve given Sadie the whole story, with updates texted as they happen, but I only found out his name yesterday. Something about learning it, knowing I was that much closer to uncovering a new secret about Gram, sent me on an emotional bender.
So I took a hike, literally. Itโs what I do whenever the grief threatens to wrap its hand around my neck and choke me. I hit whatever trail makes me think of her mostโones we hiked together religiouslyโand walk myself
into exhaustion. Then I cry it out at the peak so thereโs no chance Dad will see. Watching his eyes fill with his own sadnessย andย empathy for mine became unbearable quickly. Hours-long hikes are my escape and sanity.
After I returned from my six-miler at Mt. Tam, I fell into bed, exhausted in too many ways to count, and forgot to update Sadie.
Still, getting every detail matters to her. Sheโs been obsessed with this story since I told her about it.
Thomas pipes up before I can appropriately grovel. โThatโs his name, allegedly. Could be a fake. Noelle gave a fake name.โ
โI did not!โ I regret ever telling my brother any of this. โI said my name was Elle. Itโs a half-true name.โ
โTeddy is for chubby babies and little old dudes,โ Thomas says. โIf this guy is supposed to be Paulโs grandson, heโs probably our age. He gave you a whole fake name.โ
Sadie puts her hand on Thomasโs arm to quiet him down. โOpen the message.โ
I narrow my eyes at Thomas when he lets out a scoffing noise, then open the app.
My message from yesterday is there:
Iโm glad Paul saw the video and liked it. That means a lot. You said he was open to speaking with me? Iโd love to talk to him ASAP. Iโm in the Bay Area, not sure where youโre located. We could speak on the phone or video chat, or whatever heโs up for.
And underneath, Teddyโs response:
Weโre in the Bay too. My granddad wants to meet with you in person. Are you willing/available to meet in the city? Send times that work for you if so.
โOh my god.โ
I donโt realize Iโve shouted it until everyone at neighboring tables looks over at us.
โWhat?โ Sadie shouts back.
โThey live here. I mean, Paul does, who cares about his grandson.โ I set my phone facedown on the table, overwhelmed. โHe wants to meet with me.โ
โYou have to do it.โ Sadie leans forward. Next to Thomasโs swimmerโs shoulders, she looks bite-size, but her excitement adds a good three inches to her five feet.
โThis is a murder plot,โ Thomas says with equal parts assertion and disinterest.
โCounterpoint.โ Sadie holds a finger up in his face. โShe could meet the love of her life.โ
โPaul?โ
โHis grandson.โ Exasperated, she leans back. โDude, come on. Have you not paid attention to any of the rom-coms weโve ever watched?โ
Thomas gives her a meaningful look, flicking his eyes to me and back again. โAre you seriously asking me that?โ
Sadie flushes, and I throw a balled-up napkin at my brotherโs head. โGross. Come on.โ
They start bickering lovingly, so I pivot my attention.
My stomach pulls tight as I reread the exchange. Paul wants to meet me. This is exactly the outcome I wanted, though I never anticipated it would happen. Itโs like playing the lottery once and hitting the jackpot; it feels impossible, and yet you play because you know thereโs a chance, right?
โIโm going to say yes. Iโm going to meet up with Paul.โ
When no one responds, I look up from my phone. Sadie has a ring-laden hand over her mouth, her ecstatic smile peeking out from behind it. Thomas is watching me dubiously.
My thumbs fly over my phone screen as I reply:
What a small world! Iโd love to meet with Paul. Iโm availableโ
I pause, chewing on my lip. Iโm available all the time, but that sounds pathetic, so I pull three times out of thin air.
โThis Friday at 10am, Sunday at 2pm, or Monday at 10am. Please let me know the best place to meet.
I keep one eye on my phone for the next twenty minutes. Sadie and Thomas carry the conversation but go silent when I get another alert.
Friday at 10. Weโll meet you at Reveille Co๏ฌee on Columbus at one of the tables outside.
โFridayโs the day.โ I let out a deep breath, my heart racing. โAnd looks like Teddy will be there, too.โ
Sadie collapses against her seat. โGod, I wish I could come with you.โ โIโd go if I didnโt have to work.โ Thomas, clearly disappointed, rubs a
hand along his scruffy jaw. โMake sure you stay around people the whole time, okay?โ
I give him a crisp salute before my eyes wander back to Teddyโs message.
Tell me a secret, I hear Gram whisper to me, and my heart stretches in memory.
I blink up at the sky, wondering where she is.
Someoneโs going to tell me one of yours.
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.ย the Peloton, and I last an entire thirty-minute class, then spend the next three hours determining whether I need to go to the hospital.
I also make a halfhearted attempt to look for jobs. The work Iโm qualified for doesnโt exactly light a fire under my ass, and I wonโt touch any photography-related jobs with a ten-foot pole. Iโm not paying rent but am
contributing to household expenses, and without an income, my paltry savings is drying up fast. I have an inheritance from Gram sitting in my savings account, but she stipulated in her will I was only to use the money for something that inspired me. Needless to say, itโs untouched.
Also untouched: my camera. It stares balefully at me from my dresser. I havenโt picked it up in six months.
I need toย doย something, but Iโm frozen by my indecision and fear, and itโs starting to eat at me.
Thursday night, Thomas shows up for dinner, and we linger at the table in the backyard long after our parents go inside, talking through scenarios for the next day. I stand with a groan as the conversation wanes, my scratchy eyes alerting me itโs bedtime.
โHey, listen,โ Thomas says. โDonโt get your hopes up, okay?โ I pause mid-stretch. โWhat do you mean?โ
โI know you miss Gram.โ His tone is careful. He was heartbroken when she died, too, but our grief isnโt the same, and he knows it. โJust donโt go in expecting this to take that away.โ
โI donโt.โ My defensive tone gives me away, but he doesnโt call me on
it.
He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. โTell me how it goes
tomorrow, okay? Call us.โ
โFine,โ I say, still annoyed by his hawk-eyed observation. โโNight.โ
The earnestness of our conversation must have grossed him outโI wake Friday morning to Theoโsย Forbesย picture staring at me, wedged next to my pillow.
Gah.ย Disgusting, my rational brain says.ย Sign me up, my lizard brain counters.
Itโs with that irritating thought that I get dressed. I lock up the silent house and drive into the city, my inner monologue moving so quick and loud it sounds like static played at full blast.
Itโs not until Iโm parked and walking down Columbus Avenue in the heart of North Beach that my mind goes quiet. Itโs a power switch flipped
off as Reveille comes into view, the black brick building looming ever closer.
I should probably order coffee first, give myself a minute to get my shit together, but my hands are shaking inside the pockets of my jean jacket. Caffeine will shoot me off into the stratosphere. Maybe once I see Paul, the anticipatory anxiety will ebb.
As I get to the cafรฉ, I wonder if Gramโs hands shook when she met Paul, or when she realized she was in love with him. When she said goodbye. If she ever felt anticipation so thick she thought sheโd choke on it.
My mind is darting so quickly from thought to thought as I round the corner toward the outdoor seating that I almost miss them. But itโs Paul seated at the furthest table, no doubt, his hair white, his age-spotted hands wrapped around a coffee mug. His eyes slide past the person heโs talking to across the tableโthe broad back and dark-haired head facing away from me
โand move past mine, then bounce back. Widen.
My heart stutters to a stop along with my legs. I lift my hand, tentative, shocked by his shock, but get distracted by the man sitting across from him. The shoulders stretching across that broad back straighten, and Paulโs grandson turns in his seat, his hand gripping the back of the turquoise metal
chair.
And then my heart stops for real. Theo Spencer, the beautiful, infuriating centerfold ofย Forbesย magazine, is staring right at me.
