CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The early evening sun is out in force today, but it’s still nowhere near as warm as the shade in Arizona. The air around me may be bright, happy, and warm, but inside there’s a storm brewing. Monday morning at the center is always a bit crazy, especially in the summer.
There’s normally a mound of paperwork for me to look over. Today is no different. Incident reports from the weekend, new volunteer applications, and every person who walks by my door has to stop at it and tell me what they did over the weekend. I cater to them because listening to what they consider a boring weekend gives me insights into what’s going on at home and where they might need more help. It’s also better than reading the plea agreements when one of them gets in trouble.
I love working at the center, but I’m normally ready to come home and sit in silence at the end of the day. That’s not so much the case today when I know what awaits me at home.
Grant Moore III.
I haven’t accepted the fact he now lives with us. And I most certainly haven’t forgiven Drew for doing it behind my back. I put the responsibility of finding someone on his shoulders, but he took my feelings out of the equation and sided with the male species rather than his best friend. And that stings. Drew has never once made me feel second best.
The smell of noodles, sauce, and cheese assaults me before I get the front door fully closed. It’s heavenly. My stomach rumbles reminding me of my lackluster cracker lunch today. I can’t wait to eat whatever carb loaded dish Drew has decided to make as step one in his apology. He definitely knows the way to my heart.
“Lucy, I’m home,” I yell into the quiet house forgetting for a moment he’s still on my shit list.
“Does that make you Ethel?” the swindler himself, Grant, asks as he walks out of the kitchen. There’s a huge smile stretched across his face but it falls quickly as he sees my scowl.
“What are you doing here?”
Grant cocks his head to the side and ponders his answer for a few seconds that stretch to eternity. “I live here, remember?”
If only I could spend a few seconds appraising him. The boy never looks better than when he’s wearing jeans like he is now, but I refuse to let my eyes wander from his face. I can’t help the fact I notice his loose fitted dark wash jeans make him look totally at ease in my space.
“I’m not a moron, Grant. I just try to forget the fact I share space with you now.”
“Clare,” he sighs like I’m somehow a problem in this situation.
I pop a hip out giving him my best unaffected and annoyed pose. “Grant.”
“I made you dinner.”
“I don’t want to eat your food.” My stomach chooses that second to rumble, proving me a liar.
“Did you not want to eat the lunch I packed you either?”
“Obviously not.” I walk to the kitchen, my eyes falling on the counter where earlier this morning he’d left me a brown sack with my name printed on it. I, of course, stuck up my nose and walked out. I don’t need Grant to provide me food. I had a stack of crackers in my desk. “What was it? Caviar?”
I don’t know what rich people eat for lunch, but I’m sure it was ridiculous.
“A lunchable.”
My head snaps in his direction. How does he know what a lunchable is? I choose to ignore that information for a moment because the smells circulating around me demand I hunt them out.
There are no dishes of food on the counters. The smell is stronger and radiates from the oven. I pull my hand back when it reaches out to open the door.
I do not care what’s in there.
“I’m being nice. You don’t normally eat lunch and it’s an important meal.”
“I don’t want you to be nice.” Doesn’t he understand we come from different worlds? We’re not meant to intermingle. I don’t understand his lifestyle. One where you justify ruining families while you sit on your boat being served champagne. He wants me to eat lunch like lives aren’t being ruined.
Grant opens the oven door. With two bright pink oven mitts — Drew and I picked them up for free last year during a breast cancer awareness event — he pulls a large casserole dish out and sits it on top of the stove. Melted cheese bubbles up, a layer of sauce and a few noodles’ edges sticking out. The edges are dark brown, burnt the way I like it. How did he know lasagna is one of my favorite meals?
Damn him.
If Drew told Grant food is the way to win me over he’s in serious trouble. It takes all the strength in me but I peel my eyes away from the lasagna and with firm but dragging steps walk to the fridge.
“I made plenty for everyone,” Grant says with a clatter of a metal pan as I look in his direction again. A large light brown loaf of garlic bread sits next to the lasagna.
