A/N: The gif above is how I envision Carla, Evangeline's maternal grandmother. She's blunt, sassy, and a little screwed up in the head. 🥴
Rem and I pull up to the grimy South Side apartment complex. As we walk to the door, which is wide open and swinging back and forth in the wind, I get the strangest feeling of deja vu.
"Is this the right place?" Rem asks, visibly uncomfortable.
"This is the address Carla gave me when she moved last year," I reply, "so I hope so."
We enter the rundown building. Rem takes my hand as we walk the hall in search of apartment 10D.
We reach the fourth floor and finally locate Carla's studio. I raise my fist to knock, but my nerves stop me from making contact with the door. It's been years since I've seen my grandmother, and I'm not even one-hundred percent sure what I'm doing here.
"Want me to do it?" Rem whispers, eyeing my elevated hand.
I nod my head. "Yes please."
He knocks on the door. No response.
"She's probably not home. We should just leave," I say, already turning the corner to go back the way we came.
"Wait! I hear something." He presses his ear to the oak door. Seconds later, it swings open, causing my poor boyfriend to stumble.
"Who the hell are you?" a gruff voice asks. "Look, I ain't interested in your Thin Mints or whatever the hell else you're selling, so if you could just—"
"Hold on!" I shout, rushing forward before Carla can slam the door in our faces. "You remember me, right?"
"Evangeline?" Her blue eyes turn into saucers as she looks me up and down. "Fuck, you look more and more like your mom every day."
"Um, I'm sorry we just dropped by." I shuffle my feet nervously, unsure of what to say to her.
"Come on in." She ushers us inside her tiny apartment. "You want something to drink? I have"—she opens the refrigerator— "orange juice, milk, and... tap water."
"No thank you," I reply, scooting closer to Rem. "Um, I do have a few questions, though. If this is a bad time, I can come back late—"
"Nonsense. Sit down," she instructs, gesturing to the second-hand sofa that looks like it's seen better days.
Rem and I obey. Carla pours herself a glass of juice before claiming the beat-up recliner across from us.
"Do your grandparents know you're here?" she inquires, tucking a strand of crimson hair behind her ear. For a woman in her sixties, her vibrant red mane looks incredible. The rest of her, however, does not.
I guess that's what decades of drug abuse does to a person.
"Your other grandparents, I mean," she adds with a shake of her head, as if forgetting what she is to me.
"No," I answer, "they don't know where I am."
"How are they, anyway?"
"My grandparents? They're doing well."
"And the others? That daughter and son of theirs?"
"Gemma and Bowie are fine. I didn't come here to talk about them, though," I snap.
Her cracked lips curl into a frown. "Jeez, I'm just making small talk. I haven't seen you in, like, three years."
"And whose fault is that?" Rem rushes to my defense, startling both myself and Carla. "You could have reached out, too."
YOU ARE READING
What Lurks Beneath the Surface ✔️
Roman pour Adolescents"Maybe I should bring you home," he suggests. "Maybe you should find us a more secluded spot," I toss back, snaking my arms around his neck. "You're pretty drunk, Vange." "I am." "And we barely know each other." I feel myself deflate like a balloon...
