Purely Relative by Claire Gillian

kiss goodbye.
    “Good luck with your interviews,” he said, hugging and
squeezing me tight.
    Into his shoulder I murmured my thanks and volleyed back a
similar platitude about his training before relinquishing him to the big bad
world. Chrissy winked her lights as Jon approached the driver side, hopped in,
and then left.
    I showered and crashed into my bed with my ratty old copy of
Tama Janowitz’s Slaves of New York . Flipping the pages to find my
favorite stories reminded me of the crossword book drying in my kitchen. I
hadn’t done a puzzle in eons and if Jon enjoyed them, I’d like to do something
that reminded me of him.
    I flipped through it, looking for a puzzle he hadn’t
started, antiseptic spray in hand to nuke any lingering toilet-water nasties,
and noticed with horrifying clarity that multiple handwriting filled the book,
most of which was not Jon’s. Jon had claimed ownership; he hadn’t claimed
exclusive usage.
    A voice in my head nagged that I’d been a bad guest in the
Cripps house, and Jon had most likely been covering for me, trying to brush off
what I’d done. The truth was I’d been snooping and in doing so had destroyed
their property. Guilt rushed in, swamping my already depressed mood in a
quagmire of sludge. What kind of crappy guest was I anyway?
    The replacement I purchased on Thanksgiving had been
forgotten until then. If I had remembered, I would have given it to Jon to take
on his trip. A better idea formed. I’d take it to the Cripps, confess my sins
but clear my conscience. Hopefully they’d be more impressed by the confession
and apology gift than upset by the snooping that caused it.
    ***
    No one but Jon’s mother was home
when I buzzed the gate. To her credit, she didn’t sound the least bit surprised
at my impromptu, uninvited visit. She actually seemed excited to hear from me.
    I parked in front; I wasn’t planning to stay long. I
couldn’t. I had an interview to prep for and only an hour to spare. My plan was
to ring the bell, tell my story, hand over the book, and leave.
    It didn’t play out that way.
    Mrs. Cripps, Julia, answered the door and insisted I come
inside. She wouldn’t hear a word of what I had to say from her front porch.
Then she insisted on giving me a cappuccino and piece of coffee cake. Only
after we sat down and I took a breath to begin my spiel, did I realize that she
too had an agenda.
    “Jon is very happy, happier than I’ve seen him in a long
time and I know it’s because of you,” she said.
    “Thank you. He’s very important to me too. I—I love
him, if it wasn’t already obvious.” Damn that was hard to say, but it felt good
once it was said. I did love Jon. There had never been any doubt in my mind
once that gear finally slipped into place.
    She laughed and flipped a hand. “Oh, yes, yes and it’s
entirely mutual, any fool can see that.”
    “Aww, thanks. Listen. I came here to fess up to a bad thing
I did. I would have told you at Thanksgiving, but I panicked. And then the next
time I came over ... well there was too much family stuff going on, it didn’t
seem like the right time to bring it up. I hope it’s not a huge deal to you,
but it weighs heavy on me.”
    Julia’s face held a smile the entire time, like she was indulging
a small child. “Is this about the crossword puzzle book?”
    My eyes jacked open and my jaw dropped. “You knew?”
    “Yes, but it’s not important in the least. Don’t worry
another second about it. Please.” Again she flashed a smile, only this one was
indulgent but sincere.
    “Okay. But I did bring you,” I reached in my purse and
pulled out the new puzzle book, “this. I’m sorry for anyone who had a puzzle in
process, and I’m sorry I was too much of a chicken to tell you what I did in
the first place.”
    Her laughter swept me up and soon I was laughing, too,
though mine was more from relief and to keep her company than because I found
my predicament funny.
    “Oh, Gayle,” she began,