“At least let us start drinking,” Grandma tacks on, and judging by the murmur of enthusiasm, most everyone’s in favor of her suggestion.
Unfortunately for them, I’ve got my feet back under me. I blaze through infections and diseases, complete with accompanying Images of Doom, cover the charts on herpes and hepatitis, to reach the section on reducing the risk.
They don’t all listen, but some do, tuning in and out as they please. Better than nothing, I figure, until several launch into loud discussions with their neighbors. While a few are on topic, the majority involve the weather, gossip, andhow many more minutes till Boozy Bingo?
After I cover everything in the last slide of my presentation, I check the time and, despite my qualms, announce we have fifteen minutes left for Q and A.
Then try not to be insulted at the moans and groans I receive in response.
Refusing to lose control of a situation I’ve now got semi-in-hand, I clear my throat and add, “Remember that communication is the gateway to safe discussions about safe sex. So please, don’t be afraid to ask.”
There’s a perceptible shift in the air I don’t understand…
And then, “Yeah, I’ve got a question.” The deep voice rumbles from the back of the room, coming from a guy standing in half shadow as if he’s the Phantom of the Gymnasium.
Something about the timbre and his profile tickles my brain and prickles the hairs on my skin.
His booming footsteps bring him closer, intensifying the skittering beats of my heart. Without sunlight gleaming off the paler strands in his beard, his scruff appears darker—as does his temperament—and I thought he’d been surlybefore.
Blond and Burly and Dr. Dimples both here at the same time—what are the odds? And as much as I’ve prepared for tonight, whatever he asks, I know I won’t be ready.
With my stomach twisting in knots and my tongue gluing itself to the roof of my mouth, I get a harsh reminder that I’m better at pulling strings behind the scenes. This feels too daunting, even from my raised position onstage.
His lips part, and I tell myself not to focus on how nicely his whiskers frame his rugged features and contrast the soft pink of his mouth.
He thrusts a crumpled paper in the air and, between the neon yellow and the loud, blocky font I changed thirteen times for readability, I instantly recognize the flyer I made and distributed for tonight’s event. “Are you the one telling my grandma she needs to get laid?”
“Noah,” Arlene chides in a harsh whisper, and I’m connecting the familial dots as she throws a hand to her pinkening face.
My response pops out before I can think better of it. “Technically, I’m just teaching her how to getsafelylaid.”
Chapter Seven
The instant I wrap up—and I’m talking before I can even turn off the microphone or close my laptop—a pair of women charge up the steps. They snag opposite ends of a table I pushed aside earlier and crabwalk it toward centerstage, faster than I’ve seen any of the residents move this past week, too. I barely manage to snatch my laptop off the podium before the table knocks into it.
Without a word in my direction or acknowledgment of my presence, the white woman in the floral blouse and string of pearls snatches away the microphone. The second of the two retrieves a large, metal bingo cage from the recesses of black curtains, bumps me aside with a hip, and plunks it on the table.
I thought it was plenty noisy already, but once she cranks the handle, the godawful racket vibrates my eardrums and rattles my skull. More effective than a hooked cane, that’s definitely my cue to get off the stage, and believe me, I’m trying.
But they’re blocking my access to the staircase, and I’m in no hurry to face Arlene’s grump of a grandson, anyway.
Noah.The name rolls around my head, sounding sexy no matter which syllable I emphasize. I do a quick scan, attempting to pinpoint his location so I can dart in the other direction and hide. Like a grown-up.
A different type of dread joins the fray when I spot Grandma Helen, Wanda, and Rita circling Dr. Vasquez, undoubtedly up to their meddling and hijinks.
I’ve had enough humiliation for one day, thank-you-very-much.
I’m descending the squat staircase at the same rapid rate as my pulse when I catch sight of Noah in my peripheral. He rounds the rows of tables and chairs, long legs eating up the distance with ease, and I push my much shorter limbs faster. These heels are extra high and skinny, though, so I’m dealing with plenty of limitations.
“I’d still like to talk to you,” he calls in a husky timbre, and my stomach lifts to crowd my rib cage. “Mia, was it?”
Heat licks my nape as I hit that bottom step and keep on powerwalking across the gleaming wood floor. I’m about to get in trouble, my least favorite thing. Not that I think a lot of people are eager to be chastised, but as an overachieving perfectionist, no one’s more upset than I am that my seminar didn’t go well.
Years away have allowed me to forget how feisty and stubborn my grandmother and her friends can be. They’re like the group of popular, rebellious kids at school I could never be part of because I cared too much about the rules. And also because I wasn’t cool.
By the time I reach the group of busybodies, I’m not sure whether to scold or redirect or burst into tears, so I go deer-in-the-headlights and freeze. Which might also have something to do with the dimpled smile Dr. Vasquez unleashes on me.
“Is that so?” His amused eyes remain locked on mine, even though the question’s clearly not directed at me. All of five minutes around the Cronies without supervision, and he’s already in on some inside joke.
