Furious

Chapter Twelve

The sound of my grandfather's baritone woke me. He hummed along to Travis Tritt's "It's a Great Day to be Alive" and my heart soared.

I sat on the edge of a bench at his oversized kitchen table, my back towards to open-concept room. Without having to move I knew exactly where he stood: in front of the stove, unlit cigarette in hand, cookbook propped open on the counter. Not that he needed a cookbook.

"Smoking kills, Grandpa." I swung around to stand at the same time he turned around to face me.

"I quit. Does this look lit to you?" He gestured the tobacco stick at me, twirling it to show that it was not, in fact, lit. It did not do his face justice to pout. "I just like to hold them. Your grandmother would have supported me."

I grinned at him, recognizing the old jest; she would definitely not have supported the habit.

Grandpa's face lit up in a smile, faux pout gone from his features. The soft brown eyes whose watch I had never not known shone with his trademark joy. I missed that smile so much it hurt.

What was I doing here?

A strong, wrinkled hand beckoned me. "Come help me check the lasagna, peanut. I made you the vegetable one this time. You're the only one who wants it, so I expect you to take it home with you and eat left overs for days."

When I was sixteen I decided to be a vegetarian; the notion sounded great but in practice I wasn't cut out for the vegetable world. I approached the oven, where my favorite relative turned on the light so I could see his masterpiece. "You know I stopped being a vegetarian a month ago, Grandpa."

"That's why I put ground beef and sausage in it," he laughed and his face split in half with the delight he exuded. "Look, peanut, I knew long before you did that the vegetarian thing wouldn't last. Didn't last for your mother either, though she didn't try nearly as hard as you did."

"Oh yeah?"
"Yes indeed; you're so much like her, you know. Strong in your convictions; hot headed and quick to make assumptions; loyal." He paused to remove the lasagna from the oven with hot pads my grandmother had knitted before I was even born. "You both make that constipated look when you think I'm being ridiculous. There—just like that!"

I stuck my tongue out at him. It only made him laugh more, the hearty sound like music in my ears.

In this kitchen we had so many laughs. Some sobs, some disagreements here and there, but this kitchen was the heart of his home and it held more fond memories than anything else. A tear forced its way into the corner of my eye despite myself. I swiped at it, not sure why this moment would be so suddenly disparaging.

"But you're also not like her. You're your own you, peanut." Grandpa went back to the steaming dish, cigarette tucked behind his ear. "Don't let anybody tell you how to live; be the master of your own fate."

I felt something crack in my neck, my head whipped towards him so quickly. "What did you say?"

"Write your own destiny, Autumn. You control your Fate." He winked over his shoulder at me, smile reaching his eyes, before the room disappeared.

I wasn't ready to say good-bye. A cry stuck in my throat, forced me to gasp for air around it, choking on the feeling of abandonment. Eventually the music stopped playing and the smell of my grandfather's lasagna faded away.