Stoke Hill, Exeter





When she’d finally, finally finished re-packing her things, Gracie sank back onto her heels—sighed—and looked up at her grandfather, not glaring so much as staring at him with exasperation. “That was wholly unnecessary, you know,” she informed him, huffing an errant strand of hair out of her face. “And I know you know.”

He only stared, in that silent, patient way she knew he would, because they both knew his answer to that: that it wouldn’t actually get one, or at least be found worthy of one. It was both comforting, albeit strangely, as well as infuriating, which made more sense.

“No,” said Gracie, pointing up at his face from her spot on the floor.

It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise that Gracie, as some independent, seventeen-year-old girls no doubt were, was at times frustrated by her single, male, old guardian; there would always be things that such a man would never understand, or at least sympathize, with a young woman, much less a man of his age, and even less a man of his experience and character, which together made a singularly formidable personality. There was already a gulf to begin with, thanks to gender, but age had a way of lending it a certain, unconquerable depth that made it difficult, if not alarming, to scale, and while personality certainly went a long way to covering it, it didn’t cover all of it, and as such there were just some things that persisted and couldn’t be argued away. It was frustrating, to say the least, and so once in a while a girl had to wonder – bitterly – what having a wholly different guardian would have been like.

Sex would have been a much less discomfitting conversation, she was sure. It had been one of the rare times her grandfather had been so visibly ill at ease, however hard he’d tried to hide it, and in turn she had been ill at ease– rolling about her bed, even, with a pillow strategically (if uselessly) curled around her head, as he’d persevered, complete with Powerpoint presentation and uncomfortable but stubborn expression. From this interaction she’d emerged with a crippling urgency to erase it from memory. It had been a terrible time for all.

Of course, she had grown a little wiser since then– certainly appreciated the appeal now, that hadn’t been there before. But the point still stood.

Looking at her grandfather’s unapologetic expression, Gracie deflated. Her grandfather cared, really cared about her, she knew, and he wasn’t a demonstrably caring person to begin with. The swimming lessons, the gymnastics lessons, the lessons in self-defense (as well as its less socially acceptable brother, offense) and even the lessons in hunting, trapping and game preparation he’d taken upon to teach her himself—they were all signs of his love, despite their notable lack of warmth, and she didn’t doubt the value of them a single bit. They weren’t hugs, or cheek pinches (something she was profoundly grateful for), or kisses on the forehead, but their value was worth more than any of that, and would last well beyond any of that.

She might never have to actually, y’know, neatly dispose of a dead body (or, hypothetically speaking, create one from a not-insignificant distance), and she had never really taken to hunting as personally as he had, but it was still nice (if guiltily so) that she could.

…hypothetically speaking, of course.

“Ja zadzwonię,” she sighed, holding out a hand for him to take. His hand– callused, scarred, and steady –carefully curled around hers, dwarfing it until she pulled herself up. Years later, it still dwarfed hers. “Chyba nie dzisiaj, ale… Ja zadzwonię.”

The smile he gave her was just a pearly slash through the coarse gray of his beard, but even if it had been close-mouthed she would have still been able to see it; his eyes crinkled at the corners, deepening the lines there. “Jeśli chcesz.” He patted her shoulder.

Finally, they hugged. Or rather, Eamon nearly folded in two, because he was that tall, to make the wrap of Gracie’s arms mean something instead of simply look ridiculous. And even then her fingertips didn’t quite reach around his girth; there was muscle and then there was muscle, and since before she could walk Gracie remembered how he had always had the latter, the kind that seemed to turn into stone with age. Even the slightest, most innocuous movement brought to mind sliding tectonic plates, or the slow inevitability of asteroids. There was nothing gentle about him, no matter how lightly he touched or how quietly he spoke.

It was, she supposed, not unlike hugging a great, massive oak tree, which sounded about as uncomfortable as one might expect. But she didn’t mind; there would always be something… rigid about her grandfather, unyielding, that would make any bend at the waist– his waist– patently ridiculous if not unnatural-looking. Unless, of course, said bend had been made by an axe (or something similarly fatal).

But as far as hugs went, this one was still rather nice.