Rather than let these old assholes take up any more of my time, I decided to get into it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, gentlemen?”
They exchanged a look, clearly not having expected me to take charge of whatever little intervention they’d decided I needed.
“Heard you had tire trouble last night,” my grandfather began.
“That is true,” I said, impressed with my ability to keep my voice neutral. “I live in a new subdivision, and lots of people are picking up nails in their tires.”
“New business, new house. Are you running low on cash?”
I tilted my head to the side, pretending to be confused by my grandfather’s question. Spoiler alert: I was not confused in the slightest. I did, however, enjoy the way Cornelius Walker’s eyes caught on the peaks of tightly coiled hair on my head.
“No,” I answered, knowing exactly—exactly—where this was going. “Given that I’m a new business owner, the bank wouldn’t have approved my mortgage if I were strapped for cash, as you surely must know.”
The two old coots exchanged a conspiratorial glance, like they’d caught me in a lie.
“Then why would you accept charity?” Grandfather asked, sniffing at his beer. “Could you not afford to pay for your tire repair?”
Called it.
“Actually, Walker refused to take my money.”
Cornelius narrowed his eyes. “You offered my grandson cash, and he did not accept it?”
“Well, I offered him my debit card, and yes, he refused to take it.”
“Why would you let him do that?” my grandfather asked, trying to look down his nose at me. It was a comically unsuccessful maneuver, since I was half a foot taller and an entire personality better than him.
“Walker is an important member of my friend group,” I offered, smiling.
“The Lost Boys,” Cornelius said, unable to keep the sneer off his crusty, dried-up lips.
“That’s right, Mr. Walker. The Lost Boys?—”
“My grandson is not a homosexual.”
“You don’t have to be gay to be a Lost Boy,” I replied, valiantly stifling a snarl. “Mr. Paige said Walker was a great guy, and that was all we needed to know.”
“Mr. Paige,” my grandfather spat. “Whispering in young men’s ears for decades over at that horrible public school your parents sent you to.”
“Weren’t you thirty-five when you married my grandmother?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“She was seventeen. So maybe keep Mr. Paige’s name out of your damned cradle-robbing mouth,” I said, my voice razor sharp.
Sorry, Mom.
“The Lost Boys all do favors for each other,” I said before either of them could conjure a retort. “While I would have been happy to pay, Walker insisted it was on the house. I’ll comp his next few beers. We don’t keep tally sheets—we’re the kind of friends who have one another’s backs. Though I’d understand if you two weren’t familiar with the concept.”
I knew my grandfather looked down his nose at the Walker family business, which was dwarfed by the Cavanaugh family’s real estate holdings. I was half convinced his friendship with Cornelius Walker was based on the fact that he could reliably feel superior to the man.
The ensuing silence filled the bar. The other patrons shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and I cursed myself for losing my cool.
“Well,” my grandfather said finally, glaring at his untouched beer, “it looks bad on the family when someone of your stature accepts handouts.”
“Someone of my stature? Care to explain what that means?”
“You’re a Cavanaugh. Deserved or not, you walk around this town with the Cavanaugh name. Looking as you do, with your hair as it is, your style…” He gestured at my casual Banana Republic chic. “When Cornelius told me you had received services for which you had not paid, I had to ensure the Cavanaugh name wasn’t once again being dragged through the mud by your side of the family.”
