Read Online The Start of Me and You by Emery Lord - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emery Lord
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they were so unhappy together. When we were little, they hardly talked. They only fought.”
Her expression became a full-on scowl. “No, they didn’t.”
“Cameron, they did. They got divorced because they bring out the worst in each other.”
She glared, refusing to break eye contact for a few beats. “Well, I think you’re being super negative. It’ll be better this time.”
I glanced between our faces, reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. We looked so alike, the same green eyes and pale skin dotted with freckles, only she was shorter and bonier like I had been at that age.
“Maybe,” I conceded, finally, but only because she looked like a little kid to me in that moment. A little kid whose security blanket I had tried to yank away. “Good night.”
Once inside my room, I opened my planner to my How to Begin Again list. I’d done it—gone to a party,despite a massive curveball from my mom. I slashed a line through
1. Parties/social events.
I smiled down at the list, pride spreading through me like warmth. I’d already done one of the five things. It wasn’t even that hard. Enamored by my success, I made a quick edit to number three. Because it couldn’t be just any random guy. I needed to go out with someone who got me, someone I connected with. Someone who made my insides fluttery.
3. Date (RC)
Chapter Six
Three months after Aaron died, my grandmother moved into an assisted-living community— not a nursing home, as the brochure was careful to state. I could hardly bear to say good-bye to her house, on top of everything else I was trying to let go of. But after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis was official, she wanted an apartment here.
I found that her new place comforted me the way her old house did. The decor was mostly the same—vines of linen roses crawling up the drapes, herbs blooming in their windowsill pots, china figurines curtsying to each other inside a glass hutch. She still stocked ginger ale and my favorite snacks, and she still kept the TV on mute while we talked, always Nick at Nite.
It was my grandmother who taught me that TV shows start with writing. We were watching I Love Lucy when I was eleven, and I said, “Lucy is the funniest lady ever.”
“Lucille Ball was a magnificent talent,” she told me. “But, you know, she was said to be very serious in real life.”
“And she could just turn on the funny for TV?”
“Well,” my grandmother had said, “almost every episode was cowritten by the same person, who was very funny herself.”
“By Lucy, you mean?” I asked.
“No, by a woman named Madelyn Pugh. It was very unusual in the 1950s, to have a woman as a main writer for a show. I think she really understood Lucy.”
When I expressed how confused I was, she explained how TV shows are written in advance, by a room full of writers. At first, that new information took away some of the magic for me. But then we watched 30 Rock , a show about writing for TV, and my grandmother gave me Madelyn Pugh’s memoir for Christmas the next year. She made me want to be a part of it all.
Now I roamed around the living room, waiting for my grandmother to “put on her face.” She did her full hair and makeup before entertaining company, even if it was only me. And it was often me, carrying plenty of emotional baggage to unpack on her floor.
The mantel showcased my school pictures, framed nextto Cameron’s. Nestled between them was the picture of my grandma twirling in front of the Eiffel Tower—her arms slightly out, skirt in a bell shape around her legs, face blurred from the spinning motion. I know now that she was fifty in the photo, but she looked so young and free.
I sat down at the kitchen table, picking through the ever-present dish of trail mix. I liked sweet and Cameron liked salty. Our grandmother mediated between us even with snacks.
“Hi, sweet girl,” she said, emerging from her bedroom. She bent to kiss my cheek, and the smell of powdery lavender
Her expression became a full-on scowl. “No, they didn’t.”
“Cameron, they did. They got divorced because they bring out the worst in each other.”
She glared, refusing to break eye contact for a few beats. “Well, I think you’re being super negative. It’ll be better this time.”
I glanced between our faces, reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. We looked so alike, the same green eyes and pale skin dotted with freckles, only she was shorter and bonier like I had been at that age.
“Maybe,” I conceded, finally, but only because she looked like a little kid to me in that moment. A little kid whose security blanket I had tried to yank away. “Good night.”
Once inside my room, I opened my planner to my How to Begin Again list. I’d done it—gone to a party,despite a massive curveball from my mom. I slashed a line through
1. Parties/social events.
I smiled down at the list, pride spreading through me like warmth. I’d already done one of the five things. It wasn’t even that hard. Enamored by my success, I made a quick edit to number three. Because it couldn’t be just any random guy. I needed to go out with someone who got me, someone I connected with. Someone who made my insides fluttery.
3. Date (RC)
Chapter Six
Three months after Aaron died, my grandmother moved into an assisted-living community— not a nursing home, as the brochure was careful to state. I could hardly bear to say good-bye to her house, on top of everything else I was trying to let go of. But after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis was official, she wanted an apartment here.
I found that her new place comforted me the way her old house did. The decor was mostly the same—vines of linen roses crawling up the drapes, herbs blooming in their windowsill pots, china figurines curtsying to each other inside a glass hutch. She still stocked ginger ale and my favorite snacks, and she still kept the TV on mute while we talked, always Nick at Nite.
It was my grandmother who taught me that TV shows start with writing. We were watching I Love Lucy when I was eleven, and I said, “Lucy is the funniest lady ever.”
“Lucille Ball was a magnificent talent,” she told me. “But, you know, she was said to be very serious in real life.”
“And she could just turn on the funny for TV?”
“Well,” my grandmother had said, “almost every episode was cowritten by the same person, who was very funny herself.”
“By Lucy, you mean?” I asked.
“No, by a woman named Madelyn Pugh. It was very unusual in the 1950s, to have a woman as a main writer for a show. I think she really understood Lucy.”
When I expressed how confused I was, she explained how TV shows are written in advance, by a room full of writers. At first, that new information took away some of the magic for me. But then we watched 30 Rock , a show about writing for TV, and my grandmother gave me Madelyn Pugh’s memoir for Christmas the next year. She made me want to be a part of it all.
Now I roamed around the living room, waiting for my grandmother to “put on her face.” She did her full hair and makeup before entertaining company, even if it was only me. And it was often me, carrying plenty of emotional baggage to unpack on her floor.
The mantel showcased my school pictures, framed nextto Cameron’s. Nestled between them was the picture of my grandma twirling in front of the Eiffel Tower—her arms slightly out, skirt in a bell shape around her legs, face blurred from the spinning motion. I know now that she was fifty in the photo, but she looked so young and free.
I sat down at the kitchen table, picking through the ever-present dish of trail mix. I liked sweet and Cameron liked salty. Our grandmother mediated between us even with snacks.
“Hi, sweet girl,” she said, emerging from her bedroom. She bent to kiss my cheek, and the smell of powdery lavender
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