“Samuel Yarmark!”Gran points at the kitchen.“Get him a drink right now!Sammy says I make the best iced tea.Do you drink iced tea?”
“I do now,” Gray says.
And Grangiggles.She sounds a lot less chipper, though, when she snaps, “Get him some iced tea, Samuel.”
I’m only gone for about two minutes, so I don’t know how it happens, but when I get back to the table, Gran’s showing Gray two different tops—one white and spangly, the other black and spangly.They both look like they’re stretchy enough to be pure Spandex.
“White for lunch,” Gray says.“Black for going out.”
“I knew it,” Gran says.“Sammy sits there and says, ‘I don’t know, Gran.’This is why you should always keep a homosexual around.”
I almost drop the iced tea.“Gran!”
But Gray murmurs, “That’s not the only reason.”
And Gran’s face turns bright red, and she starts to giggle again.
“Okay,” I say, “he’s got his iced tea, and you got your real-life homosexual.Can he eat his food now?”
“I brought some for both of us, actually,” Gray says.To Gran he adds, “Sammy works too hard.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Gran says.
“There’s enough to share,” Gray says.“If you want to join us.”
“I couldn’t,” Gran says, but like shecouldif he asked her again.
“No,” I say, “she couldn’t.”
Gran shoots me a look, and if I were eight years old again, she’d be sending me out to cut a switch.
It takes about five more minutes before Gran finally goes back to her bedroom—in that time, she manages to bring out a pair of earrings for Gray to approve and a grainy picture on her old flip phone of Robert or Rodney or whoever.Gray says he looks hot, but he wants to know who paid the check.Gran says she did, and then they’ve got to dissect that little piece of information, and they both agree Robert might actually not be such a good egg if he’s making Gran pay on the first date.But they also agree to wait and see.And then Gran says she’ll tell me all the updates so I can tell Gray, unless it would be more convenient to get Gray’s number and text him herself.
And finally—finally—she’s gone.
Gray’s face is a little too serious as he unpacks the food.He’d asked me about burritos, but what he brought are burrito bowls.That’s a good, healthy choice—lots of protein and vegetables, without all the extra carbs.He’s got little containers of salsa that he lines up on the table.And he’s still looking so serious as he folds up the empty bag and sets it to the side.
“Okay,” I say, “go ahead.”
He looks up, and for the third time, I get the eyebrows.
“You can laugh about it.Or make a joke.”
“About what?”
I wave a hand.“I know it’s embarrassing.”
His mouth gets a little softer the way it does—I’m starting to learn—when he’s about to smile.“Youmight think it’s embarrassing.Ithink it’s cute.Are you going to sit down?I got carne asada and the chicken adobo or whatever it’s called.Which one do you want?”
“Itisembarrassing.Anybody would be embarrassed.”
“Why?She loves you.She’s obsessed with you.Did you hear her tell me how strong you are because you loaded that bag of steer manure into her car without anybody helping you?And she’s sweet and sincere and a hell of a lot more interesting than most people I meet.”
It doesn’tfeellike he’s making fun of me.But the old part of me, the part I don’t like so much, still wants to crawl down inside my skin and disappear.Because people don’t live with their gran, and if they do, their gran isn’t always falling in love and showing off her clothes and making your friends pick out her earrings and planning a wedding in Vietnam.It’s not that I don’t love Gran; I do.But that part of me I don’t like so much gets real loud sometimes, like I’m ten or fifteen—or hell, twenty-two—and the only thing that matters is that people like me.And that’s another thing I don’t like about myself.
“Chicken or steak?”Gray asks.
I give up and sit.“How much do I owe you?”
