Page 2 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

I ’m starting to think love might be an elaborate hoax cooked up by greeting card companies.

The parking lot of the assisted living facility is nearly empty as I pull in, but I barely notice. I’m too busy listening.

“Love is chaos,” the host declares. “And not the charming, scripted chaos you see in movies. Real love? It’ s messy.

It comes without warnings or instructions.

It doesn't care if you’re ready or not. Whoever convinced us there’s some manual for navigating relationships was probably selling greeting cards… or something stronger.”

I blink and stare at the empty passenger seat like I’ve just been personally called out.

Pointing at the speaker, I gasp, “That’s what I said.”

Focusing on the voice, my fingers tap a random rhythm on the steering wheel.

“But that’s the beauty of it, right? If love were easy, if it followed a neat, predictable timeline, wouldn’t that be boring? Wouldn’t that mean it wasn’t worth the risk?”

“Easy doesn’t sound boring to me at all,” I tell my speaker, ignoring a curious glance from a woman getting in her car that’s parked next to mine.

“To our dear letter writer, whoever you are: contracts scribbled on napkins, neat timelines, perfectly executed plans, they don’t matter. Love doesn’t have a manual. And even if it did, you’d probably lose it anyway. So throw caution to the wind, let go of the rulebook, and go get your girl.”

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 sitting there 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 reads Nursing is a Work of Heart in 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 with Frank Addice typed in bold is taped just above 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 my friends 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. I tried to 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 the wet sock complaint you gave me last time.”

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

I’m already rummaging through my oversized tote for a contraband bacon-and-egg bagel from his favorite café.

His eyes widen with the same unfiltered delight a kid gets on Christmas morning. “That’s real food.” He pounces on the bag and pulls out the bagel before sniffing it. This is a dangerous addiction.

“It’s your once-a-week treat,” I remind him, settling into the chair and crossing my legs. “Don’t push it.”

He hums and takes a hearty bite that seems to transport him to another dimension of bliss. “I’ll do my best not to keel over with happiness,” he says between bites.

“You’d better not. I’m way too busy to plan a funeral.”

“Baby girl, I almost died last year. I’ve earned all the indulgences I can get.” He finishes chewing and gives me a sideways glance. “You know, I bet if you smiled more, you’d finally land yourself a boyfriend.”

“Not this again.”

He holds up his hands, although he struggles with his left side. “What? I’m just stating facts. I might die without ever seeing my favorite granddaughter settle down.”

“I don’t have time for men. I’m too busy raising an eighty-five-year-old toddler.”

Chuckling, he leans back against his pillows. “Yeah, keep making jokes.” He finishes his bite, then peers at me, eyes narrowing. “Well, you do look a little spiffier than usual. What’s the occasion?”

I glance down at my navy wrap dress and tug on the belt at my waist. “I have an interview.”

“An interview?” His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you were doing that part-time nanny gig for the Mitchells.”

I run a hand through my hair in my best attempts to tame the half-wave, half-frizz thing it’s got going on this morning. “That ended. They moved away.”

“So this new interview is…?”

“Another nannying job. Full time. It’s for a one-year-old.” I pause, swirling the memory of yesterday’s phone call around in my head. “The dad sounded kind of desperate.”

He gives me a look that’s equal parts suspicion and fatherly concern. “You got your pepper spray? ”

“Oh, for the love of—Grandpa, he’s not going to kidnap me.”

“You never know. Crazy world out there,” he says with a shrug, then finishes another big bite of bagel. “Although he’ll probably give you back once he realizes you talk more than the morning news.”

I give his knee a gentle smack. “Rude.”

“That’s my numb side. Didn’t even feel it.”

Rolling my eyes, I decide it’s best to ignore him.

“This is a legitimate listing on a reputable site. The worst that’ll happen is that I’ll meet parents who haven’t slept in weeks because their baby won’t stop crying.

” I hesitate, remembering the clipped voice of the man on the call yesterday.

Damn it, it won’t stop niggling at me. “He really rushed me for this interview. I mean, he called just two hours after I sent my application. Barely asked for references.”

“That’s a bad sign if I ever saw one.”

“Or,” I say, leaning forward, “it’s a sign they need help. Which is perfect, because I need a job that doesn’t involve wearing an apron and smiling at customers who can’t remember to say please.”

I used to think that once I graduated, I’d have it all figured out with a perfect job at a daycare or maybe teaching preschool, but real life had other plans. I bounced between short daycare stints, part-time nanny gigs, and way too many shifts waiting tables just to pay the bills.

Serving coffee to cranky adults taught me one thing: I like kids a whole lot more than grown-ups.

I’ve always loved music, too. For a while, I thought maybe I’d go into music therapy for kids. But grad school takes time and money, and I had neither.

Most of my college friends treated nannying as a pit stop or something to tide them over. But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t passing through. Being around kids and helping them grow is the work that lights me up.

Grandpa eyes me skeptically. “Is that your way of saying your only friends are still in diapers?”

I laugh despite myself. “Hey, that’s not fair. I do have friends.”

“Yeah? Who?” he teases, his grey eyebrows arching over his silver rimmed glasses.

“ You’re my best friend,” I protest, nudging his knee.

“Oh, great. Your best friend is a crusty old man who has to sneak bacon to feel alive. Thrilling social life you got there.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m a terrible friend.

” I try to say it lightly, like it’s a joke, but the truth is, it’s not really funny.

I’m the girl who reads a message, mentally replies, and then forgets to hit send for six weeks.

It’s not that I don’t care because I do.

I just get overwhelmed. Life snowballs, and suddenly it’s been a month, and I’m too embarrassed to respond with ‘sorry, just seeing this’ because we both know that’s a lie.

I guess I’ve just been in survival mode for so long that I forgot what it’s like to be present for people who aren’t in crisis. And that’s not fair to anyone.

“You’ve always put everyone else first, Lena. Just promise me you’ll occasionally let someone else do the same for you.” Eventually, he relents and pats my hand. “I’m sure you’ll get the job, and you’ll be great at it. But promise me you’ll be careful. Text me the address.”

I should never have taught him how to do that because he’s never off the damn phone now .

Shaking my head, I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “I promise, you paranoid old bat.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, hesitant with what he’s about to say, which means I know what’s coming because Grandpa is never hesitant. “You spoken to your father lately?”

Same answer as last week. “Nope.”

“Tess must miss you?”

“I speak to her every day.”

“You practically raised her.”

As if I don’t feel guilty enough about leaving. “I know that. I make sure to see her every week, twice if I can, but she’s fourteen now, and too busy for her older sister.”

There must be something in my voice because he doesn’t press anymore.

As he finishes the last of his contraband breakfast, I fuss over him like I always do—adjusting pillows, checking the water pitcher, making sure his TV remote is within arm’s reach.

Moments like this, I feel needed. It’s a nice reminder that no matter how complicated my life might be, I have a purpose here.

“Alright,” I say, once I know he’s settled. “I’d better get going if I don’t want to be late. First impressions and all.”

He waggles his fingers in a mock wave. “Tell your future employer I said hi. If he’s single, maybe let him know I’m accepting applications for a grandson-in-law.”

I bark out a laugh, ignoring the sudden flush in my cheeks. “You are not playing matchmaker for me again.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on. That lawyer wasn’t that bad. ”

I level him with a look. “He cried on our first date.”

“So he was in touch with his emotions.”

“Grandpa, he cried because the waiter brought him the wrong wine.”

I shake my head, biting back the rest of the story.

Like how I still curse myself for falling into bed with Wine Tears after one too many glasses.

I’m convinced he cried directly into my drink and drugged me with emotional damage.

The man wanted to discuss our combined energy mid-orgasm.

His, obviously. I faked it so hard I deserved an Oscar.

A shudder works its way up my spine. “You’re officially banned from matchmaking.”

He lifts his chin, eyes sparkling. “What can I say? If you won’t find love, I’ll bring it to you.”

Love.

There’s that word again. I can’t decide if it feels like a big joke or a sweet possibility. Either way, it’s not something I have the mental energy to chase right now.

I lean over and kiss Grandpa’s forehead. “Don’t harass the nurses too much, okay? And for God’s sake, don’t die.”

“And give you a moment's peace? I wouldn’t dream of it.”