The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly 3)

Colby

I’m such an idiot. This was the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever had. After dropping Norah off at home—and witnessing her mother’s panic firsthand—I decided I wanted to find her a new sweater to replace the one I stupidly ruined. I should have known not to put the thing in the dryer. I own plenty of sweaters. I know how to read laundry tags. I do all my own laundry. But I was so tired after taking care of her all night, and I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. I was on autopilot.

I don’t know how to pick out a sweater for a woman, so I’ve recruited the help of my sister, Hannah, who brought along Seth. It all spiraled out of control, and now Jameson and Millie are here, too. It’s a BFF shopping day, according to Seth.

I have a whole audience of people asking me why I’m looking at women’s sweaters, and I don’t know how to explain to them that I suddenly want to make Norah Sullivan happy. Norah Sullivan, who I’ve spent the last month complaining about nonstop. They would all rub it in my face, and I’m far too exhausted to deal with that right now.

“Why did you invite them?” I ask under my breath when Hannah comes to stand beside me.

“You didn’t tell me you were on a secret mission,” she mutters back. I didn’t think I’d have to explain that I wanted as few witnesses to my insanity as possible. “Why don’t you just get her a gift card? It’ll give her a chance to go shopping. She’d like that.”

“No, I want to find something similar to the pink sweater. I saw how sad she was when she saw that I ruined it,” I say as I walk through racks upon racks of clothes. I never realized how much bigger the women’s sections are until today—until I had to look through all of it on my mad quest.

Hannah gives me a devious smile. “You like her, don’t you?”

“What? Are you crazy? No, I definitely do not!” I point my finger at her, but she just rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe me for a second. And she’s right. She has realized, in a moment, what it has taken me weeks to figure out. I have a raging crush on Norah. I realized it last night when she was lying on the floor, cuddling that silly cat.

How could I not? She’s hilarious, a bit of a smart alec, annoyingly mischievous, but she’s also kind—when she wants to be. It’s odd how some of the things that used to drive me crazy are some of the things I like most about her now. Life would never get boring with her, that’s for sure.

“Okay, tough guy. You don’t have to admit it if you don’t want to. Just tell everyone you’re looking for a gift for Mom. They wouldn’t think twice about that,” Hannah suggests. She pats my arm and walks over to Seth. He rubs her belly with a dopey smile on his face. She wraps her arms around his waist in a hug, having to lean forward to work around her growing bump. For the first time in a long time, I think it would be nice to have what they have. Someone you can be your complete self around. Someone to share everything with. Someone who accepts you just as you are. I know I’m not the easiest person to love. I’m a grumpy perfectionist. I’ll probably never find anyone who is willing to deal with all of that.

I continue on my quest to find the perfect pink sweater, using Hannah’s lie until, finally, everyone stops asking what I’m doing. I feel bad lying…and slightly ridiculous. Why is it so hard to say I ruined her sweater and want to surprise her with a new one? It’s what it implies. It’s what everyone would know once those words left my mouth. I need more time to stew on it and process these feelings that I’m not completely comfortable with yet.

After five stores and way too much time walking through mall crowds, I’ve finally found the perfect replacement for Norah’s sweater. It’s not the exact same shade of pink as her old one, but it’s just as soft. It’s got a bit of a turtleneck. I hope she doesn’t have any strong feelings against them.

“It’s perfect,” Hannah squeals next to me. “It does look very similar to the one she was wearing last night.” She reaches over to feel the sleeve, and then she rubs it on her cheek and sighs.

“You think I should get this one?” I ask. I hold it up in front of us, inspecting it from all angles.

“Definitely. I’ll distract everyone while you buy it. Mom would never wear that shade of pink, and Millie would know that in a heartbeat.”

I rush over to the register as quickly as I can, avoiding the eyes of all my friends. Unfortunately for me, the cashier is a frail-looking elderly woman who feels the need to hold up the sweater and have a ten-minute discussion about how “gaudy” she thinks the sweater is.

“Sweetie, my husband had to learn the hard way to not buy me clothes. Take it from me, a woman who knows, just bring her with you and let her pick her own clothes,” she says loudly enough that surely everyone in this store and the next hears her.

“I appreciate the advice, but I’ll be buying this sweater,” I reply.

“Are you sure? The color is just so…bright,” she says. “It’s like staring into the sun.”

Hannah rushes over to me, panting and holding her belly. She has a forced smile on her face as she says with increasing volume, “Hi. Hello. Look, ma’am, the woman the sweater is intended for has the most gloriously tan skin in existence, unlike yourself. If anyone can pull off this shade of pink, it’s her. And I happen to know that she loves bright, happy colors, because she’s a bright, happy person. So, just ring up the dang sweater!”

The woman’s eyes are wide, and her mouth hangs open in shock. She finally scans the tag and says, “Oh look, it’s on sale. Small mercies, I guess.” I don’t respond, because I know whatever would come out of my mouth would not be kind. I swipe my card and take the bag from the counter.

“I’m never coming back to this store,” Hannah says as we walk to where everyone else has congregated.

“I doubt she’s always working, and I’m pretty sure I saw at least five different registers scattered around the whole store.”

“No. I just yelled at someone in the middle of the store. I’m probably going to be featured on some ‘Karens Gone Wild’ page online. I’m mortified,” she says. She smacks her hand over her face and groans.

“Just claim it was the pregnancy hormones.”

Norah

I’ve never been so excited for Monday in my entire life. My mom hovered over me all weekend, bringing me bowls of soup, forcing so much water down my throat that I thought I would drown, and checking my temperature, despite the fact that I told her repeatedly that I already felt much better. She wasn’t convinced.

I know she only does these things because she loves me and wants to make sure I’m taken care of. I should be grateful to have a mom who cares so much, and I am. I really and truly am. I just wish she wouldn’t spiral out of control every time I merely sneeze and then hover over me for the next twenty-four hours.

My cancer diagnosis really did a number on her mental state. My mom has always been meddlesome. Before my cancer, it was more who are you dating, when am I getting more grandchildren, I wish you would come back to Waverly, etc. After my diagnosis, it turned into three to five phone calls a day, an endless stream of questions about my appointments, treatments, doctors, facilities, and her driving two hours to where I lived multiple times a week to clean my apartment, stock my fridge, and do whatever else she deemed necessary. And I did appreciate all her help then…so much. I was absolutely exhausted while going through radiation. Just the thought of going grocery shopping and cleaning was too much for me.