She’s right. On both counts, obviously. Instead of digging myself deeper into the hole, I shrug as I set bottles of ketchup and mustard on the counter. Reaching in for the jumbo jar of hamburger dill slices, I listen as she continues, “I think we should invite him over.”
“No.” Absolutely not.
“Why not? Are you embarrassed of your family?”
Turning to face Carla, I nod. “Absolutely. Yes. I’m absolutely embarrassed to be associated with all of you.” I laugh. “Just kidding.”
Carla snorts. “No. You’re not. If I were still single and—”
“I know.” I shove the jar of pickles into Carla’s arms and add, “Help me get this stuff outside.”
“Fine.”
****
“Excuse me.”
I was just about to bite into what used to be a beef patty but is now more like a hockey puck when a voice, a deep, rich voice interrupts me. Turning slowly, I notice the rest of my family is doing the same thing. Almost like it was synchronized, every pair of eyes ends up on Sam Griffin at the exact same moment.
“Does this belong to you?”
I blink a few times, trying to process his words. It’s difficult because Sam is dressed in warm-weather attire. He’s in cargo shorts in a dark brown and a worn gray tee that I just know would be so soft to the touch it’d make me want to rub up against it. Okay, okay, it’s what’s inside the shirt that’d make me want to do that, but it looks soft. Trust me. I can’t see what’s on the front of the shirt because Sam’s holding something. He’s holding Dash, my four-year-old great-nephew. His hands are under Dash’s armpits, and he’s got him suspended off the ground about three or four feet. Dash’s feet are swinging wildly, but he’s giggling.
“Dash!” Connie shouts at her grandson as she races over to take him from Sam.
“Where’d you find ’im?” my dad asks as he takes a bite of his pasta salad.
“He was in my kitchen.” Sam looks right at me. “Eating a loaf of bread.”
“Oh. My. God. I’m in love.”
I’m not sure who said that, because I’m focusing on Sam. I’m thinking it was Connie’s daughter and Dash’s mother, Brittney.
“I’m sorry,” Connie coos, setting Dash down. He runs off in the direction of Sam’s place again, but none of us seem to care because everyone seems to be fascinated with one Sam Griffin. “You must be Sam.” Connie holds out her hand and lets her wrist go limp, like she’s expecting him to kiss it or something.
Instead, he stares down at her hand, reaches out and shakes it. Carla is next up. She sidles up to Sam, and I swear to you, she was about to attempt a hug, but Sam stepped back just in time.
“Oh.” Carla giggles and raises her hand to him for a shake. “I’m Carla.” He shakes it, but says nothing.
“You should take a look at his truck.” My dad’s still chewing on his food, so his words sound a bit jumbled, but since his statement is directed at my brother-in-law, Jim, sitting next to him, I decide not to worry about it.
Glancing back at Sam, I blush when I see his attention is on me. Only me. “Um…”
“Sam, dear.” My mother has just joined the fray. “How much do you weigh?”
What?
“Mom…” I do my best to stop this line of questioning because that’s what it is, a line of questions. This is the first of many. Of many personal questions.
“Around two fifty.” Sam says like it’s nothing to discuss his weight. My only hope is it doesn’t start a whole group discussion about weight. I mean… No way am I throwing out mine.
“And you’re about six-four?”
See? Mom is just getting started.
“Six-three.”
“Nice.” She winks at me. “How old are you?”
