Anyways, how this book only has 24 ratings on Goodreads is a tragedy—I will be plugging and blasting and screaming about FIREFLIES AND YOU on social media until the end of time!
PLZ READ IT SO ALANNA CAN WRITE MORE AMAZING BOOKS.
With Love (& Cupcakes),
Kels
And, as always, tag me in your cupcake posts!! I LOVE seeing your beautiful bookish creations. [Showing Comments 1-20 of 1,782]
TWO
You’d think us Levitts would be minimalists.
I mean, we once moved six times in two years in the name of Gentrify, U.S.—a documentary that exposed the realities of gentrification in American cities. From nine to eleven, I lived in Brooklyn, Boston, Chicago, D.C., San Francisco, and Seattle.
By Chicago, I lived out of my suitcases. There was no point in pretending to settle.
With every move and every new doc, my parent promised it was the one. Gentrify, U.S. earned Mad and Ari Levitt their fifth Academy Award nomination.
It lost to a doc about chinchillas. Seriously.
I’m just saying. Considering how much of my childhood has been spent packing and unpacking and relocating, stuff should be a burden. I should live a cleansed, clutter-free life.
I don’t.
Exhibit A: the tornado of clothes still covering Aunt Liz’s floor. Or my floor now, I guess.
I stare at the mess I made. If I move the clothes from the floor to the bed, is that progress? Maybe instead I’ll purge everything that doesn’t spark joy. Honestly, I probably should’ve channeled Marie Kondo in Charlotte, before I challenged myself to fit my entire closet it one suitcase, just to see if I could.
I decide I can deal with the clothes later. First, my books need to breathe—in alphabetical order, by genre. I empty my suitcase one book at a time, organize, and shelve. Repetitive motion centers me, but I finish too soon. All my books fit on the white lacquered bookshelf next to the bed. It’s small—only two shelves. It’s kind of a tragedy, all the books I have fitting on only two shelves.
I would’ve had at least five more if my parents hadn’t made me donate a bunch to the library before we left. Incomplete fantasy series and old white dude literature I read for school now have a new home in the donation bin at the Charlotte Public Library. It’s never easy, saying goodbye to books. Especially ones that I have discussed and debated for years with my friends. Like, will Nash still be my best friend if he knows I donated the first two books in The Queen of Stone series? I’m not about to tell him and find out.
Still, it didn’t hurt so bad at the time, when I thought I’d have Grams’s collection to fall back on. But I don’t. And I’m afraid to ask Gramps what he did with them, because if he trashed them I don’t know what I’ll do.
I take a step back and assess my work. My bookshelf is small, but it is mighty. It’s a collection that consists of my three favorite things: swoony romcoms, twisted thrillers, and anything edited by Miriam Levitt, AKA Grams.
Fireflies and You is face out, of course. Signed, courtesy of being the granddaughter of the editor. It’s hands down the most priceless part of my collection.
Everyone on Book Twitter claims it’s impossible to pick a favorite book, but Fireflies and You is mine—no question. Beyond the beautiful story, it’s the book that made OTP. It’s the book that told me publicity is my path and showed me that I am in fact good at shouting about books—and making people listen. The one that helped me see I need to work in publishing.
And now it’s the book I reread to feel close to Grams.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the pressure that builds behind my eyes. Fireflies and You is going to be a movie, so it’s been everywhere lately. It comes out in January and it’s the first Grams book to ever be adapted and she doesn’t even get to see it. She’ll never know—
Breathe.
“Hal?”
I twist to face the door, for one brief minute expecting Grams. Then Gramps’s head pokes in. I turn back around to wipe my tears, quick. Gramps cannot see me like this. I need to be positive. Enthusiastic. I asked to be here.
Gramps’s expression is neutral behind his too-long beard. If he saw me upset, he doesn’t show it. “I’m sorry. The orange. I know you hate it. I meant to paint it. Before. I just—”
I shake my head. “It’s okay, Gramps. Orange is a crime to the color wheel, but I’ll live.”
He nudges the door open enough to step in. “It is pretty bad.”
I snort, grateful for this acknowledgement. It’s small, but it’s the first time since arriving that Gramps sounds like Gramps. “So bad.”
“You can repaint. Any color you want.”
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
Gramps’s shoulders relax as he approaches Scout, who’s standing at the end of the bed, tail wagging. She blends in so well with the clothes when she’s curled up in a ball and sleeping, I honestly forgot she was here. Gramps scratches her ears and my brain is in overdrive, trying to figure out what to say next, what words to form when Gramps seems sort of okay, to broach the topic that’s the hardest.
“Her books?” I blurt out.
Gramps flinches. “Boxed up in the garage.”
I nod. “Can I—?”
Gramps is gone before the question fully forms.
Of course, I said the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing. It’s just—I needed to know. The absence of Grams’s bookshelves and the hundreds—no, thousands—of stories that lined them? It’s a tragedy.
I close my eyes and clutch Grams’s hamsa charm.
I open my eyes, exhale a shaky breath, and power on my laptop.
The screen comes to life, full brightness, and my pulse steadies as I type in my password. I can at least focus on the blog and checking to see if I got this cover reveal email, things that aren’t totally out of my hands. Except my inbox isn’t refreshing, and I notice my laptop is refusing to connect to Wi-Fi. Weird. It worked fine last summer, when we stayed in Middleton for three weeks. It should automatically connect, but of the six routers that appear, none are familiar.
I close my laptop and venture to ask Gramps. Also because I can only be surrounded by orange for so long. It’s too loud. Impossible to focus. Ollie’s already shut into Dad’s room, J. Cole blasting from his new speakers as I head down the stairs.
I park myself on the living room couch and open my laptop again. There’s so much to do, but connecting to Wi-Fi is priority number one. Tomorrow’s posts need to be edited; tweets need to be scheduled. Once all One True Pastry–related duties have been conquered, tonight is for organizing, sweatpants, Netflix with Ollie and hopefully Gramps, and catching up with my friends.
“Hey, Gramps?”
“Huh?” he yells from the adjacent kitchen.
“Did you get a new internet router?” I ask.
“Nope!”
I place my laptop down on the coffee table and peek my head into the kitchen. Gramps is sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating popcorn. Like a newspaper is popcorn-worthy entertainment.
“Then where’s the old one?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.
Gramps shrugs. “My desktop is hardwired. So I didn’t need it anymore, you know?”
I soften. “Gramps.”