nose glued to my phone way more than usual, I set the shit down. Pretty fucking pathetic that it had been two days and I was still waiting on a reply from Savvy.
After that, I felt more like myself.
Grandma tells me she has been watching “my show.” I don’t have a fucking clue what she’s talking about until Mom whispers, “She follows you on TikTok.”
I about fucking die. I mean, the shit I do on there, just fucking around, isn’t always something you want to share with your grandma.
“You should have her on your show, Tricks.” Dad chuckles.
I’m sure most teenage boys have at one point or another wanted to swing on their father. Until this moment, I wasn’t ever one of them.
“I’m not thinking this is Grandma’s platform.”
“I saw you all with Josephine doing that Savage dance.” She smiled. “I may be a few years older, but I have moves.”
“You sure Grandpa will be okay with that? I know he worries about what we share on social media.”
She grins. “I’m counting on it getting him worked up.”
There are times when you wish you had a MiB Neuralyzer handy to wipe away your memories. This is one of them.
“I say go for it.” Mom laughs.
Grandma’s grin widens. “How about three generations of Savages?”
“Perfect.” Dad laughs. “I’ll record.”
And record he does.
When I post it, she says to make sure I mention PSGrams. “PS is for you Patrick Steel.”
Being their only grandchild, I get all the grandparent love. Always feel it deeply, too, but after the shit the other night with Savvy, I’m feeling it ten times deeper.
Hugging her, I say, “Gotta promise to do another one at Christmas with me.”
“Make it easy. I’ve been practicing this one for months.”
While on my phone, I check one last time to see if she replied. She didn’t. And as soon as I post me and Grandma’s little dance, tagging PSGrams, I turn off my notifications and my ringer.
“Let’s practice one together now.”
She insists I do the dances as she videos them so she can practice. I show her the running man, the tkn dance challenge, and a couple others, at her request.
We plan to stay another night, but when the real estate agent messages Dad, telling him the house is available for early possession, that’s all the excuse he needs to get us back home. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy our time here; he and my grandfather are always talking baseball. One’s a Sox diehard; the other a Yankees, yet they still get along. If only the entire world would see it’s possible.
As soon as we touch down at Monmouth, a private airport twenty-five miles from Mantoloking, I turn on my phone and about shit myself when I see a message from Savvy.
10:05 p.m - Sending my location just in case you don’t hear from me again, Clue style.
10:05 p.m - It was Easton.
10:05 p.m - At Crystal Lake.
10:06 p.m - Death by either drowning or I was burned at the stake like all the brave women who dared stand up to the man before me.
10:06 p.m - Remember, this is MY place. Don’t you dare tell those twats where I am, and don’t show up or I will cut you in your sleep. I’ll message you when he leaves.
What the fuck? I think as I reread it. Then I spend the better part of the ride back replying and deleting my reply, waiting for a heads-up that she’s cool or he—whoever the fuck he is—is gone.
By the time we get back, I have googled the directions. When I get out of the car, I tell my parents I’m going to hang with a friend.
“Don’t blame you for wanting to avoid the Brand situation.” Dad laughs.
It has nothing to do with Brand, but I’m not about to unload all these fucking feels I have going on when I’m not even sure of what they are.
“I’ll be back later.”
Mom gives me a kiss. “Just check in. And if you have a drink—”
“Don’t drive. Got it.” I kiss her back then hurry to my Jeep.
Thankfully, it isn’t blocked in.
Probably one of the dumbest things I’ve done in my lifetime, and if I make it out of the fucking woods I’m creeping into, like a damn idiot, it probably won’t be the stupidest thing I ever do. But apparently, for Savannah, I’m willing to do some shit.
When I get to the end of the drive, I see an old-school Volkswagen Bus and an old-school Ford Bronco,