Triple Love Score

by Brandi Megan Granett

  “Granddaughter Lynn!” Bunny squealed back.

  They stood face to face and jumped up and down.

  Bunny raised a hand out like a stop sign. “Let me see your outfit,” she said.

  Lynn stopped bouncing. She wore a pink sweatshirt with a yellow star in the center and pink sweat pants with a rainbow stripe down both legs. Her rainbow socks had slots for each individual toe. She wiggled her toes, her energy and desire to move barely contained.

  Bunny looked her up and down. “Really, Miss? Don’t you think you’d rather try on this?” From a bag at her feet, Bunny pulled out a gorgeous green velvet dress with ivory lace trim. Even on a hanger you could tell the skirt would be perfect for twirling. “You brought tights, right? I told you to on the phone.”

  Lynn resumed bouncing. “Yes, yes, yes. I did. I brought the tights. New ones!! Can I go change?”

  “You certainly may. But hug me first.”

  Lynn flung herself at Bunny, crushing the dress and burying her face in the fur stole. She pulled back a little, and then reached up a tiny hand to pet the fur. “Real?” she asked.

  “Do you need to ask?”

  “Oh,” Lynn said, taking the dress.

  “Go change, I’m dying to see my pretty granddaughter done up right.”

  Lynn rushed past Miranda, holding up the dress. “Randa Panda, look!”

  Before Miranda could respond, Lynn rocketed up the stairs.

  “Randa Panda,” Bunny said. “I see Scott is still as suave as ever and passing it on to the child.”

  “I don’t mind,” Miranda said. “She’s a neat kid.”

  “Of course, she is! Would my grandchild be any less?”

  “Never, Bunny.” Miranda stood amazed at this transformation. How could you go from denying a child’s existence to insisting on her excellence?

  “Well, then Miranda, give me a hug.”

  Scott emerged from the den. “Mom,” he said; his tone bordered on cool. Then he ducked back into the den, and the sound of football announcers poured out of the room.

  “Men,” Bunny said. She shrugged a little, and the head of the fox appeared to be winking at Miranda. She hoped Bunny would ditch the fox sometime before dinner.

  Scott and Lynn watched football and the nature video on the split screen. They were oddly juxtaposed. A lion rushed a herd of zebras as a Clemson Tiger running back split through a Texas Longhorn defensive line.

  “Hey,” Lynn said. “Technology compromise.”

  “Those are big words,” Miranda said.

  “Daddy’s,” Lynn said. “Anyway I like football, too. Sometimes they show the marching band.”

  Scott flicked off the picture in picture. “Sugar, you can have the television. I’m going to go upstairs and check some emails.” Miranda watched him go, wondering how many times you could miss someone before you stopped caring.

  “Will you watch with me?” Lynn asked. “I promise this is a good part.”

  The comfort of the den and soothing sounds of the animal kingdom won out over the sounds of dinner being prepared in the kitchen. Miranda listened to Avery and Bunny bicker about the temperature for reheated foods until finally Linden boomed, “Just make the gravy really hot, and we’ll put it on everything.”

  “Girls, dinner,” Stanton called. “Scott?”

  “Come on, Lynn—let’s get while the getting’s good.”

  “I love turkey,” she said. “We try to be vegetarians, but Daddy said we could skip it this weekend. We skip when we go out for Italian food, too.”

  Vegetarian, Montessori School Teacher, vitamin crazy, Subaru driving, Oregon living. Hipster, she thought, a health-nut hipster. A far cry from the boy she remembered. And until this morning, she thought she really liked him. Not that she had ever stopped liking him. It was more that she forgot about liking him for a while. Forgot about waiting for him to come back. Sitting home her entire twenty-first birthday just in case he showed up again like magic or even just called.

  She sat at the table and passed the food around and scalded her tongue on the hotter than hell gravy, which did indeed do the trick as after that it didn’t matter what temperature all the other food was. She watched Scott spoon food onto Lynn’s plate and refill his mother’s wine glass. Every time his glance caught hers, she looked away, asked for the salt to be passed, or dropped her napkin. The others probably talked, probably said something about the weather or the news or what’s going on in the stock market, but Miranda didn’t hear them.

  “Can you pass the wine?” she asked Bunny.

  “So, Miranda, what’s new in the poetry world? Anything to write home about?” Linden laughed at his own joke. Avery and Stanton kept eating. They never really understood why she picked poetry over the law.

  “Well, actually, I’m doing this thing. Online.”

  “A thing? A poetry thing?” Bunny asked.

  “Yes and no. It’s poetry and pictures. I’m creating word sculptures on a Scrabble board, then I photograph them and share them online.”

  “Oh, your friends must like that,” Linden said. “Can you pass the pearl onions?”

  “Not just my friends, really; it has kind of taken off.”

  Scott pulled out his phone and started typing.

  “Honestly, Scott, not at the table. It’s Thanksgiving. You’re as bad as your father about work. What kind of school emergency could there be on Thanksgiving?”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Scott said. “Like this?” He held up his phone to Miranda.

  “Not like that. It is that.”

  “You’re Blocked Poet?” He typed in some more and held up it up again. “This is you?” He held up her overly sappy tribute to an unanswered friend request.

  “I want to see,” Lynn said. “Oh, what did you do to make the picture look so old? Did you drop it in water?”

  “No, it’s a feature on the camera.” Miranda said. “I just want the pictures to match the mood.”

  Scott took his phone back from Lynn. He flipped to another one of her poems. “This, too?”

  “Yes, I’m the Blocked Poet. It’s just me. No one else. I didn’t think anyone paid much attention to it, but—”

  “You have fifty thousand Twitter followers. Fifty thousand.” He shook his head.

  “Yes, and more on Facebook and Pinterest and Instagram. So?” She didn’t want there to be a tone in her voice,but there was.

  “That’s a good thing, no?” Avery asked. “This work is popular?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good thing,” Scott said. “If you have the right team in place. You can even make money on it.”

  “Money, how? I’m a poet, remember?”

  “You know—ads on your website, links that point back to it, tie-in products. Some of this would sell great on the side of a coffee cup. A friend does this. You know the cat with the angry face? He did that. And most of the deals for that duck-hunting family, too.”

  “The ones with the beards?” Avery asked.

  “The cats have beards?” Bunny asked.

  “No, Grandmom Bunny, the cat is grumpy. The duck hunters have beards. And toilet paper with their faces on it at Wal-Mart.”

  “Scott, are you saying that people would be wiping their asses on my daughter’s face?” Stanton asked.

  “No, it’s not like that. The products match the brand. Miranda, you understand, right? Give me your email, and I’ll send you his stuff. Or just look him up on Facebook.”

  Facebook. The mention kind of stung. Miranda just nodded.

  “I never use mine,” Scott explained. “Too many teachers get in trouble for that. But look up my friend, Ambrose Reed. I think he puts a Q in as a middle initial, as if there are a ton of Ambrose Reeds in the world he needs to distinguish himself from.”

  “Thanks,” Miranda said. “It’s probably not that important. It’s just me and a Scrabble board. But thanks.”

  Scott rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. “You should think about it.”

  “Well,”
Stanton said, “I must be getting old. I don’t even understand the concepts being discussed. Nor do I care to, but congratulations to Miranda anyway. Now young people, clear the table and bring out the pie.”

  She followed Scott and Lynn to the kitchen. Miranda began unwrapping the apple pie, while Scott and Lynn pulled out the ice cream.

  Scott struggled to make a dent in the vanilla ice cream.

  “Is there an ice cream scoop?” Lynn asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Miranda said. “Avery doesn’t eat much ice cream.”

  The tablespoon bent under the force. “Shit,” Scott said under his breath, before quickly adding, “Don’t listen to Daddy, sweets.”

  “Here, let me help,” she said. “I know a trick.”

  Scott looked up. “No, that’s okay,” he said. “I got this. I don’t need any help.”

  He pulled out another spoon. This time, he scrapped a little off, dotted the slice of pie Miranda set in front of him.

  “Seriously, if you just run the spoon under hot water it melts the ice cream some.”

  “I’ll do it, Daddy. I’ll heat up the spoon.”

  “I said I got this. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t need any help, Miranda.”

  Miranda watched him chop at the ice cream, making more shavings than scoops. He refused to meet her gaze.

  “Okay,” she said, “Fine. Please tell them I didn’t I want any dessert.”

  She turned and went up to her room. All she had hoped for was a little bit more of last night: some of their old friendship, a little bit of conversation, a chance to catch up about the last six years. But maybe the less he knew about her the better. And vice versa. She didn’t need anything more Scott Cramer-related to think about. In the morning, she would pack her small bag and leave, chalking this holiday up as a wash. Belize looked better and better for next year.

  C H A P T E R

  ACCORDING TO THE WEATHER ALERT on her phone, the forecasters were calling for an early and heavy snow. She packed up her stuff before she went down to find Avery and Bunny having coffee in the tea parlor, television tuned to the weather station.

  “Glad we’re in for the weekend,” Bunny said. “I would hate to be out in this mess.”

  “I hope Scott and Lynn didn’t have any traffic last night,” Avery said.

  “Good thing they left,” Bunny added. “But I miss being with Lynn this morning. Even with all that drama, I love that little girl.”

  “They left?” Miranda blurted out. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Lynn?”

  “He knocked, but you were asleep,” Avery said. “Said he didn’t want to bother you and that he was really worried about the storm, but I think he just didn’t want to play golf this morning.”

  “Silly men, going out on a day like this.” Bunny picked up her coffee and took a deep sip to finish it up. “Miranda, can you be a dear and get me a refill?”

  Miranda took the cup and headed into the kitchen. She filled Bunny’s cup and her own. She listened to the empty house. Stanton and Linden off golfing or smoking cigars in the clubroom, Bunny and Avery cocooned in front of the television on the storm watch, Scott and Lynn gone. She played yesterday over in her mind. Why did he even bother to come back?

  They used to tell each other everything from their imaginations about undersea voyages to what made them afraid about growing up. How many hours did they spend just talking? Being in the city together reminded her of how good it felt to just be with him like he was still her best friend, the one person she could say anything to. But time changes everything. She took a sip of her coffee only to find it had gone cold. She dumped both cups and started the process again.

  “We were starting to worry,” Bunny said.

  “But not enough to come and check,” Avery said.

  “Had to brew a fresh pot.” Miranda hated lying, but there was no point in telling them what she was thinking about it. There was no way to form the questions she wanted to ask. And no guarantee they would even answer, given the history of Scott as a subject in this house.

  “I’m going to head out then. Get back to town before the storm.”

  “But dear,” Avery said. “It won’t be safe.”

  “Look, they say it won’t really start to snow heavily until three. I’ll be home well before that.”

  Outside on the dashboard of her car, she found a note on pink paper. Lynn, she thought, a smile crossing her face. Instead of a crayoned drawing, though, she found a name: Ambrose Q. Reed. She crumpled up the note and tossed it into her purse.

  Traffic crawled through the snow that arrived earlier and heavier than predicted. After searching in vain for normal music, Miranda punched the radio off. It was still November, too soon for Christmas carols, and she felt like a bah-humbug anyway.

  She eased her car off the highway and down the winding main street to the tiny parking lot in front of the apartment. She lived on the first floor of a once grand Victorian now carved into apartments. Aside from the beautiful windows, the house’s main charm stemmed from its location next to a liquor store. She stood outside her car for three full minutes just staring at the sight of her snowcovered town, grateful to be off the interstate and into the silence that descends with snow. Snow muffled everything, though not her hurt feelings. She would need alcohol for that. Turning to walk toward the store, she kept her eyes focused above her, watching the fat, fluffy flakes fall, until her shoulder collided with something solid.

  “Miranda,” a familiar voice said.

  “Ronan?” she asked.

  “Me in the flesh. And in the snow.”

  “Good Thanksgiving?”

  “Don’t really celebrate. Irish and English. My people booted your pilgrims out.”

  “Oh,” she said. She moved to step around him. “Well, see you in class next week.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “Tonight?”

  “You know, like today. Later.”

  “Um, well to be honest, I had a bit of a day yesterday. I was thinking about getting home and drinking. You?” she said.

  “Drinking sounds like a plan. I’m Irish.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “How about I prove it? Let me take you someplace.”

  “Like a bar?” Miranda asked.

  “Yes, yes, a bar. Have you ever had a car bomb?”

  Instead of turning into the liquor store, Ronan led her up the sidewalk, heading out of town. The shops became more sparse, giving way to houses packed tightly together. He made a left turn, led her down another block, to a building shaped like all the other houses on the street, only instead of siding, the lower half featured rock-studded cement. Glass blocks lined the top and served as windows. In one, neon advertised Miller, Made the American Way.

  “Here?” she asked.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  I don’t think so, she almost replied, but instead she ducked under his arm as he opened the red padded door. She wanted a drink. Two drinks. Maybe more.

  A few people sat at the far corner of the bar under the Pronto Lotto screen. They didn’t look up. They barely moved except to flick away their losing cards and draw another set.

  Ronan eyed the group. “Let’s sit here,” he said, pointing to the far end of the bar. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward two open stools. A quick spark passed through him into her; goose-bumps ran down her arms, making her grateful that she still wore her coat.

  The bartender, an older lady with her gray curls in the classic wash and set, slowly made her way over to them. “The usual?” she asked.

  “Not tonight, Lucille,” he said. “Car bombs today.”

  “You know I don’t make that crap,” she said.

  “Let me.”

  “It’s not even Irish,” Lucille said. “That’s just some American crap.”

  “Yes, woman, I know. But that’s beside the point.”

  “And the point is to get drunk,
I suppose,” Lucille said.

  “This is a bar, isn’t it?” Ronan asked, a smile broad on his face.

  “If you weren’t cute, I wouldn’t let you in here. But you start singing, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’ll kick you out again.”

  “Again?” Miranda asked.

  “Ssshhhh,” Ronan said. “Let’s not speak of it. Guinness, Jameson, and Baileys please.”

  Lucille cocked her head at him.

  He put a twenty up on the bar.

  She still didn’t move.

  Miranda reached into her purse and put another twenty on the bar.

  “Oh, so it’s not a date,” Lucille said, swinging around to grab the whiskey bottles.

  “Not a date,” Miranda said. “He’s my student.”

  “Oh, so you’re one of the ones that teaches him those fancy words he uses. You watch out, he might just use them on you.” Lucille poured out two glasses of Guinness, put out two shot glasses, and walked away.

  “She’s right,” Miranda said. “We really shouldn’t be doing this. You’re my student.”

  “But we aren’t doing anything. We’re just drinking. Even the bloody poetry department serves wine at functions. This is just a small function.”

  He poured the Baileys on top of the Guinness and then dropped the shot glass of Jameson on top. “Drink fast,” he said, sliding hers over. “It curdles.”

  “Curdles?” she asked. “What kind of small function?”

  “Yes, curdles, now drink. Any kind of small function. You’re a poet, be creative.”

  She took two sips and then set it down. “You’re a poet, too. What’s your reason for this gathering?”

  “I thought you were good with language,” he said. “Drink, woman, the whole thing.” He picked up his glass and downed the whole thing.

  “All right,” she said, doing the same. She set down her glass, and then said, “Another?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. Lucille—two more?”

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” Miranda said. “Why did you ask me here tonight?”

  “You said you could use a drink,” he said.

  “That’s all?”

  “Can’t a man just want to a drink, too?” he said. “Now do you want to talk or drink?”