As Told By Paramours

chapter three

elijah

I DON'T RECKON GETTING ANNOYED WITH SOMEONE who is innocently trying to make small talk with you is in the least justifiable.

That's why when my grandfather calls me for the third time in the last two minutes, I look up with a fond smile and say "Yeah?"

It's not that I don't like visiting him; I do, once in a while. I come to visit him because it's a break from my family, a pinch of quiet. Some days he's louder and more enthused, other days he's calm, thinking. The latter is what I come often for, but today, he's the former.

"I forgot to tell you," he starts, and my interest is piqued. "One of the volunteers-- er, or workers, she's your age."

"Oh, really?" I'm genuinely curious this time. "I haven't seen her 'round."

"Yeah. She comes on the days you don't, and she saw you singing. Thinks you're really good."

I blink, finding sudden and (hopefully) convincing interest in the T.V. behind him. "And?"

"Two things. She's Rosemary's granddaughter."

This surprises me. "Really? That Rosemary?" When he nods I continue. "What are the odds?"

"Very curious," he agrees. "Two, she left you a note." He points to the table. "I read it already. Sorry."

I'm admittedly curious about both things, and I give him a grin and one shoulder shrug to let him know that it's okay, before grabbing the note from the table by the door and scanning the words.

When leaving your grandfather, please remember to arrange his shoes by the door and tuck in the coats in his closet.

p.s. You're really good at playing guitar (If I say I snuck up on your practice it would sound extremely creepy but it's not as bad as it sounds, I promise),

Josie :~)

I stare at it for a moment, and scribble a quick note for when she visits my grandfather again.

Sorry- will remember to do that next time. I was in a rush.

p.s. I reckon you're the granddaughter of my grandfather's heartbreaker he keeps talking about? If i accepted your compliment I feel it'd be betrayal...

Elijah.

The note comes back on the Friday I visit next. She really does work every day I'm not here.

1. Then I take the compliment back.

2. He broke her heart, I'll have you know.

Josie >:~(

(see, it's angry because you're lying about the story)

I raise a brow when I read the note, slightly startled by the way her note almost sounds familiar, like we've known each other for our whole lives, and even more startled by how I don't... hate it. I honestly wasn't expecting that she'd reply again.

His story would beg to differ,

Elijah.

Hmm?

Josie >:~(

Attached to her scribbled words is a rough sketch I assumed she'd drawn, though very poorly. It's a timeline of my grandfather's story, with a couple points changed from what he told me.

My grandfather is watching the television silently, so I turn to him and tell him: "She said this is what happened," handing him his gold rimmed reading glasses with her illustration.

My grandfather murmurs a couple intelligible words when he reads it, before shoving it back in my hands. "You see, Eli? That's what we call slander and defamation."

I agree, of course. I'd heard the story a million times by now, mainly because of my grandfather's long-term memory loss. "Is it possible it was a misunderstanding? Or that um... both of you made a mistake? It happened a long time ago."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Are you implying something, boy?"

I hide a grin. "No, sir, nothing, sir."

I'm in the middle of writing a sentence back when my grandfather taps my knee, and I arch a brow at him.

"You especially should not get involved with her," he says, waving a finger. "Those Laurier women are another type."

I shake my head slightly. "Alright, Grandpa," I say, and leave the note by the sink.

● ● ●

No one is home. No one is ever home.

I open the fridge and pull out juice, pouring an ill-advised amount into my cup before sitting on the window seat and grabbing my guitar.

Because of artists block I had about five minutes of playing (playing as in holding the guitar and hoping a song would come to me) before something catches my eye.

I crane my neck a little, peering out the oval encrusted window: There's a girl passing my house, clad in a grey plaid skirt and tucked in turtleneck, with a matching plaid puffer jacket and runners, mid calf socks bunching up near the bottom.

Walking past my house isn't unusual.

The unusual part is that she's just run into a pole.

Another girl comes up behind her, fair brown skin and curly black-brown hair rushing to her in concern, but there's a smile in her eyes. Think she mouths: "Are you okay?" and stays with a straight face for all of three seconds, before they both start laughing.

I don't realize I've gotten up and am standing, about to go help her myself. I sit and close the curtain, shaking my head, small smile on my lips. I need to get over this artist's block.