Page 14 of When We Were More (Aron Falls #1)

T illie

Today’s a day to celebrate, but I’m also sad.

Not because it’s the day my divorce became finalized—but because every year since I left Joe, Gram and I would order a pizza, sit on this porch (as long as the weather permitted), and indulge in a couple of celebratory drinks.

It’s not the same this year because Gram isn’t here.

It’s my first time marking the anniversary without her.

I’ve ordered the pizza, and I’m in my sweats and long-sleeved T-shirt. With my favorite afghan wrapped around my shoulders, I walk from the house to the front porch swing, carrying my elderflower martini.

Once on the porch swing, I rock slowly and think about how my grandmother introduced me to elderflower martinis on the first anniversary of my divorce.

It started out as a rough day. I felt like a failure.

I wanted to crawl under my blankets and not come out until the day was over.

Not because I still wanted to be married to my ex, but because I couldn’t believe that at twenty-six years old, I had already made such a colossal mess of my life.

At least it seemed like that back then. But I’ll never forget Gram’s spunkiness as she set me straight.

A sharp knock on my bedroom door jolts me from my daze, and I turn my head to find Gram in the doorway, staring at me. I grunt at her and pull my blanket tighter.

“C’mon, Tillie girl, we’re going out. Get up and get dressed, it’s one o’clock.”

“I don’t want to go out. I’m tired and I want to stay in bed today.” I turn away from her and contort myself into a fetal position. Within seconds, Gram comes the rest of the way into my room, rips my blankets off me, and tosses them to the side.

“Sorry, sweetheart. There’s no wallowing in sorrow today. You’ve been free of that jerk for a year. That’s worth celebrating.”

Over the next few minutes, she practically manhandles me into getting my shoes on and heading out to her truck.

I chuckle, thinking back to Gram’s big old pickup truck. She loved being able to haul stuff around in one, and as far back as I remember, she always had one. She was a tiny bit of a woman, and it was almost comical to see her driving around town in such a beast.

Once Gram got me that far that day, she dragged me to the store and insisted that we buy top-shelf vodka and the most expensive elderflower liqueur they had.

When we got home, she mixed the alcohol and some tonic water, and when I took my first sip, my taste buds were thrilled.

Usually, I don’t like the taste of alcohol—except wine—but Gram made a killer elderflower martini.

As I sip the one I just made, I think that mine isn’t quite as great as Gram’s was, but is still pretty damn good.

I’ll never forget how this tradition began.

I’m holding the martini Gram made, and she’s watching me. I take a sip. Wow, I did not expect to like this. The only martini I’ve ever tried prior to this was one sip of a dirty martini, and I hated it. But this is flavorful and yummy.

Gram looks me straight in the eye and says, “This is our ‘fuck you’ to Joe.”

First, I’m shocked. I’ve never heard Gram swear. Then, I can’t stop laughing, and I nearly pee my pants. My grandmother just said fuck. It takes a minute, but when I catch my breath after the episode, Gram looks at me and says, “Well, go ahead—say it.”

“Say what?”

“I want you to stand here on this porch and say, ‘Fuck you, Joe.’ Yell it to the winds.”

“Gram, who are you? I’m not going to say that.”

Gram is quicker than I would have thought when she snatches the drink out of my hand so fast that I’m stunned.

“You don’t get the martini unless you do the chant.”

I raise an eyebrow at her and put my hands on my hips—something she says I’ve always done when I’m being sassy.

I stare her down. But that’s the thing about Gram: no one ever beat her in any kind of contest. My Gram is a badass.

She could—and does—do anything she wants.

She’s smashed every goal she ever had. So, of course, she wins the stare down.

“Ugh. Fine. Fuck you, Joe! There, can I have my martini back now?”

“Honey, you can do better than that. That was barely louder than your normal voice. I heard you screaming from all the way inside the house when you saw a snake by Grandpa’s shed, so I’m sure you’ve got it in you. Do it. It will feel good. Let me hear it!”

Jesus, this woman. I love her with all my heart, but when she wants something, she’s relentless in pursuing it. Still, I want to spend the evening with her, and she isn’t letting me off the hook.

I take a deep breath, stretch dramatically (earning one of her classic grins), and prepare myself.

Then I yell at the top of my lungs: “Fuck you, Joe!”

Damn, that does feel phenomenal.

I do it again.

And a third time. She makes me walk around the porch and yell it in all four directions.

Guess what? I feel better. Childish, but better.

I use the tips of my toes to gently push the porch swing as I reminisce about those times. I’m not an asshole—definitely not someone who usually revels in the fact that she’s divorced—but the shit that man put me through? The fact that I got away and that I’m okay ? That’s worth celebrating.

My eyes burn a little thinking about it.

I never could’ve done it on my own. God knows what my life would be like now if it hadn’t happened the way it did.

When I came to Gram five years ago, my fourth anniversary of being married to Joe was only a few weeks away.

Instead of excited or happy, I felt stuck.

My husband was unfaithful, and I had almost no access to money because he had pressured me to whittle down my hours until I was only working a little here and there.

I had been working full-time right after college, eager to begin my career as an accountant.

He took that from me. Another thing that brought me joy, which he kept from me, and I let him. That’s the worst part; that I let him.

I love numbers. Some people hate math. Not me. I love to read, but I never liked my English or writing classes. But numbers? Numbers tell the truth. Numbers don’t hurt you. Well... unless it’s the number on a scale. Joe made me hate that number when we were married.

“Fuck you, Joe,” I whisper. “Fuck you.”

I swear I hear Gram’s voice saying, “Louder, baby girl. Yell it out.” I chuckle, knowing she would have said exactly that.

Tonight is the fifth anniversary, and Gram and I had decided that it would be the last “Fuck you, Joe” celebration.

After tonight, he gets no more energy from me.

This one tonight isn’t even about him, either.

It’s about saying goodbye to another thing that was mine and Gram’s.

I set my drink down on the small table next to the swing and climb down. I’m ready. My eyes burn with tears forming as I walk to the part of the wraparound porch that faces the woods on the northern border of the house. They aren’t tears for Joe or my marriage, they’re tears that Gram is gone.

I take a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” I grab the railing, and at the top of my lungs, scream: “Fuck you, Joe!” Gram would be proud.

I then walk to the area facing the back yard, east. “Fuck you, Joe!” I yell.

It’s loud enough that I wonder if the neighbor a half mile away can hear me.

When done there, I go and stand in front of the swing, and I repeat the same steps facing south—one more to go.

I turn to face the west, where the stairs are, and open my mouth to yell now that my adrenaline is pumped up a bit. “Fu—” I jump back, startled, when I see Henry standing there, holding a pizza.

“Hey there, tiger. You okay?” I can’t tell from his expression if he’s worried or trying to hold in laughter.

“Is that my pizza?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

“Yes, it is. I tipped the delivery driver heavily, too. I walked up to him, wide-eyed, as you faced the back of the house yelling, ‘Fuck you.’ Pretty sure he’s traumatized.” He chuckles before his face changes. “Seriously, though, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here, Henry?”

He peers down at the porch floor and kicks at the worn wood with the toe of his shoe, then looks up.

“I came to apologize for how I talked to you the other day. I tried to call first, but there was no answer. I promise you, I’m not usually such an asshole.

” I narrow my eyes at him. Is he sincere or screwing with me?

“I’m very sorry, and I’m hoping we can rewind and start over.

All the way back to the start. Possibly even be friendly. ”

I say nothing at first, but I stare at him for an awkwardly long time. Then I ask, “Do you want to stay for pizza?”

His eyes widen in surprise.

“Um… sure. If it’s okay, I will.”

“Put the pizza over on that cast-iron table for now. I have to do one more ‘fuck you,’ then we can go inside.”

He doesn’t even question me, but moves to do as I asked.

My heart pounds. I’m unsure if it’s because I’m embarrassed he caught me screaming “fuck you” to the wind, or because as soon as I saw him standing there, my thoughts transport me back to the other day in the kitchen, especially when he called me tiger again.

The incident had me amped up enough that I had to use my vibrator to relieve the tension for the first time in forever.

He stirred up desires in me that had long been dormant. It was both exciting and terrifying.

Embarrassed or not, I need to finish. But when I open my mouth, I sense him next to me.

“Is this a solo activity or do you want company?”

I gaze at him for several long seconds. He seems sincere, not like he’s making fun of me.

“It can be a group activity. My grandmother used to do it with me.” My voice is almost a whisper.

“All right, let’s do this then. It’s only ‘Fuck you, Joe,’ right?”

I nod.

“Okay, on three,” he says.