by A. S. Teague
“You’re such a good boy.” She smiles and flips the Saturday slot on her pillbox open. After shaking the contents out, she scoops them up with her arthritic fingers and then looks up at me. “What’s her name?”
The corner of my mouth tips up in a smile. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout, Gram.”
Turning my back to her, I get busy washing the dishes from breakfast, hoping that she’ll drop it. I have my arms buried to the elbow in soapy water, scrubbing the remnants of my eggs off the cheap pan, when I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Just leave it on the table. I’ll get it,” I tell her as she slowly makes her way to the sink, her hands full of dishes.
“My God, Barney. I’m old, but I ain’t crippled,” she snaps.
I glance at her swollen knees and pointedly raise my eyebrows.
She waves me off and continues. “Now, tell me. And don’t think I don’t know what time you got in last night.” She waggles a bent finger in my direction, a smile playing on her face. “Or this morning, rather.”
I hoped to keep whatever it is between Rebecca and me quiet, but it seems Gram’s perceptiveness has struck again. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for long. My parents weren’t around, so it had fallen on Gram to raise me. Her husband, my grandfather, Barnabus, had died before I was born, so it was just the two of us.
Growing up with her, I never got away with anything. As a child, when I stole candy from the store, she knew before we’d even made it home. She turned her vintage Cadillac around and taken me right back to apologize before tanning my hide in front of the manager and everyone in the store.
In high school, the one night I came home drunk out of my mind, she wasn’t waiting up on me. I smiled to myself as I passed out, thinking I’d finally gotten one over on her. But, when I woken up the next day with the worst hangover of my life, she tortured me by giving me a list of chores a mile long––all of them outside in the blazing heat.
Even as an adult, the few times I’d had a one-night stand, Gram called me on it. She wasn’t even living in the same town back then, but still, as if she had a sixth sense for my shenanigans, she knew. I tried avoiding her call the first time, but that just proved to be a mistake. She showed up on my doorstep and refused to leave until she came in and gave me a tongue lashing. Try explaining that to the half-naked chick who is making coffee in your kitchen.
Sighing, I pull my hands from the sink and grab a towel to dry them. After turning in her direction, I prop a hip on the counter, crossing my feet at the ankle. “Her name’s Rebecca. And it’s nothing right now. She doesn’t even like me.” I chuckle and sway my head from side to side. “Well, she says she doesn’t like me. She’s lying to herself though. She likes me alright, it’s plain with the way she stares at me all day that she’s attracted to me.”
Gram nods, rapt with attention. When I don’t elaborate, she blinks twice and says, “That’s it? You were out till the wee hours of the morning, served me cold Cream of Wheat with a cat-that-got-the-canary look on your face, and all you can tell me is that she doesn’t like you?” She smacks me on the arm.
“Owe!” I shout, rubbing my arm.
For someone with arthritis in every joint of her body, her slaps sting.
“You get punched for a living, Barnabus. Don’t act like that hurt. Now, I’m gonna go sit in my chair over there, and you’re going to tell me more about this Rebecca.” She doesn’t wait for me to agree, knowing I wouldn’t tell her no even if I wanted to.
Rolling my eyes at her back, I drop the dish towel on the counter and follow her into the living room.
“I saw that,” she scolds over her shoulder.
I stick my tongue out at her back.
She says, “Saw that one, too, mister.”
After she settles into the recliner that takes up at least three-quarters of the living room, I hand her the remotes and cover her with her favorite pink afghan. I sit on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wingback chair made in the 1800s––when comfort was obviously not a priority––and begin filling her in. She listens attentively, never once interrupting.
When I finish, I hold both hands up in surrender and say, “So that’s everything. Promise.”
She nods, more to herself than to me, and stays silent for a moment. Finally, she speaks. “This is what you’re going to do. You’ll bring her for Sunday dinner tomorrow. I’ll get to know her a little bit, and then I’ll tell you what I think.”
I shake my head at her and glance around the pathetic excuse for an apartment we live in. “No way, Gram. Not a chance.”
“Well, why in the hell not?” she questions. “You ashamed of me?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then I don’t see what the issue is. You’ll bring her for dinner. How about pot roast?” she asks, breaking out the big guns because it’s my favorite. One we haven’t had in months because the cut of meat she likes to use is never on sale.
My mouth waters at the thought of the tender meat and the savory vegetables, but I swallow and push the mental image of devouring an entire pot to the back of my mind. “For starters, this place isn’t big enough for the two of us, much less three people. But, more importantly, roast isn’t on sale this week. And I don’t get paid again until next Friday.”
She studies me again, and her scrutiny makes me squirm in my seat. She was wrong to assume I was ashamed of her. But she wasn’t far from the mark. There is no way I am bringing Rebecca to this shithole.
I flash my gaze around the room again, avoiding Gram’s gaze. The recliner Gram loves is so aged that I’m almost certain it belonged to her during the Depression. It’s been patched so many times that the patches’ patches are threadbare.
Our TV was made in the late ’90s when flat screens were only imagined in the Jetsons or Back to the Future. The carpet is in desperate need of being torn up—and then set on fire—and the coffee table slopes to the left because I had to repair a broken leg with a two-by-four that wasn’t quite the same length as the other legs. You can’t even set a drink on it because it will topple over and spill everywhere. Although, now that I think about it, pouring soda on the carpet would probably make it smell a little better in here.
No, there is absolutely no way in hell I am bringing Rebecca back to this apartment. My pride barely allowed me to rent it in the first place, and showing it to Gram when we moved in had damn near killed me. She promised that she doesn’t give a shit, but I do.
She was used to living in a fancy retirement community and traveling the world with me to all of my fights. My suspension from fighting was a blow to both of us.
She clears her throat, and I snap my attention back to her.
“Okay, then. We’ll go out,” she states bluntly.
I begin to object, knowing we can’t afford that, either. Like a fool, I spent most of my pocket money on sushi and wine.
But she puts a hand up and silences my protests before I even get them out of my mouth. “That’s enough arguing with me. I’m an old lady. My heart can’t take stress.”
I roll my eyes at her. She may in fact be an old lady, but her heart’s probably healthier than mine. She uses that excuse any time she wants to get her way with me. And, because she’s always been the most important person in my life, I usually let her get away with it. But not this time.
“I don’t have the money,” I tell her, ashamed to admit it, even to her.
“Who said anything about you paying?” She quips. “This is my date. I did the askin’, so I’ll do the payin’.”
“Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind? Taken too many pills?” I’m offended that she would even so much as suggest paying.
I may be down on my luck, and we may currently be living below the poverty level, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting my seventy-six-year-old grandmother pay for my date.
Gram pushes to her feet, and her afghan falls to the floor. She angri
ly kicks it out of the way before stomping over to me and again smacking me, this time upside the head. “Barnabus Sundance Hawke. How dare you speak to me that way.” She wags her finger in my face as I rub the back of my head.
“Gram––” I protest.
“You hush.”
I clamp my jaw shut, but not before grumbling, “That hurt.”
“Don’t be a wussy.” She moves directly in front of me, her hands on her hips, and I’m forced to tilt my head back to see her face.
My mind flashes back to the million or so times growing up that I was in this exact same position, her standing over me, pretending to be outraged, and me sitting, pretending to be ashamed.
I smile to myself, the depth of my love for this woman who gave up her life to raise me hitting me in the gut, and watch a slow smile spread across her face.
“Don’t you go usin’ that smile on me.” She tries sounding stern but fails.
Even so, I nod at her and say, “Yes’m,” before biting the inside of my cheek.
“Now, what was I over here fussin’ at you about again? Oh, yeah. Sunday supper.” She takes one hand off her hip and reaches out to pat my cheek. “Call your lady friend and tell her we’ll pick her up after church. We can have lunch at the cafeteria.”
I groan at her choice but nod.
“Tell her she doesn’t have to get too fancy. You’ll be in your Sunday best, of course, but she shouldn’t go to too much trouble tryin’ to get all gussied up for me.”
I nod again. She pats my head twice and then turns away from me, shuffling back to her seat.
My shoulders sag in relief, and I’m glad that the interrogation and the subsequent scolding are over. I get up and follow her to the chair before bending down to get the abused blanket from the floor. She settles back into the chair, and I once again cover her lap with the blanket.
“All right. I’m gonna finish cleaning up the kitchen and then head to the gym for a bit,” I tell her once she’s gotten comfortable. After retrieving her glass from the kitchen and filling it with tea, I place it on the TV tray that serves as an end table beside her chair. “Can I get you anything else before I go?”
She looks up at me and smiles, shaking her head. “I love you, my sweet boy,” she says, squeezing my fingers.
I keep my grip on her fingers and squeeze her hand in return. “Not as much as I love you, Gram.”
She releases my hand and reaches for the remote. “Now, move over. Your mama wasn’t a glassmaker.”
Chuckling at her outdated joke, I move to the side. After I’ve finished getting Gram set up for the day, I throw some gym shorts and a T-shirt on and bolt to my car.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to my destination. I sit in my car and let it idle, wasting gas I don’t have to waste while debating how to approach the situation. Hey, Rebecca. I’m sure your dates usually take you to lavish restaurants, but wanna go to a cafeteria so you can meet my nosy, overprotective grandma. Yes?
Fuck my life.
Taking a deep breath, I finally turn the car off and then head to her front door. I ring the doorbell, causing the dog to bark, and chuckle to myself when I hear her muffled shout on the other side of the door.
The door flies open, and Rebecca stands on the other side, still in her seasonally inappropriate pajamas from the night before.
Her eyes light, but she immediately locks it away. “You again?” she grumbles.
“Mornin’, doll. How ya feelin’?” I ask.
After the amount of wine she put away last night, I’m actually surprised to see her standing upright.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“You gonna let me in?” I ask with a smile.
Her eyes narrow on my lips. Sighing, she doesn’t reply, just swings the door open and steps aside.
As I move into the house, Prince trots up to greet me, so I bend over and give his ears a good scratch, which causes his butt to wiggle.
“For such a big, intimidating-looking dog, he sure is a lover,” I say, looking up at her.
Her face softens, and she wraps an arm around her waist while running the other hand through her hair. “Yeah. He’s my big baby,” she coos at the dog. “He’s probably a wuss ’cause I cut his balls off when he was a puppy.” She shrugs. “He didn’t need them though. And I’ve heard testicular cancer’s a bitch.”
I stand upright and laugh. “Oh, you’ve heard, huh?”
She giggles. “Well, not from anyone who’s actually had it.”
I stare at her makeup-free face as an unfamiliar twinge tightens my chest. “You’re beautiful when you smile like that. And that laugh—I could listen to it on repeat and never get tired of hearing it.”
Her eyes widen before flashing away. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her gaze trained to the floor.
I’m nervous. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous about anything. Not before a fight, not when the UFC president called me to his office, and certainly not before asking a woman out.
Even though I’ve been asking her out for over a week and she’s shot me down each time, I’m not nervous. It’s a game we’re playing and, eventually, she’ll relent.
But this time is different. This time, Gram is asking her out, and I need her to say yes.
“Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
She blinks at me and says, “Not this again.”
Ignoring her comment, I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t have any say, either. Gram’s requesting. And you don’t tell Gram no.”
She glowers. “No.”
Groaning, I take two steps forward, forcing her backward until she’s flush with the wall. Placing my hands on either side of her head, I lean in until we’re nose-to-nose. “Yes.” I rub my nose along the side of hers, inhaling her sweet scent. “Be here at noon.”
She turns her head to the side. “No.”
I move my hand to her neck and tilt her head back, forcing her gaze to once again meet mine. “See, now, I’ve got a problem.”
She rolls her eyes again, and I allow my body to press flush against her. A small squeak escapes her mouth as our hips meet.
“You tell me no, that means I gotta tell her no. And, doll, that shit is not gonna fly. So I’m gonna need you to put on a pair of those tight jeans that make my hands ache and the heels that send my mind in a million different directions, all of which end with how they’d feel digging into my back, and then have lunch with us.”
“Jesus, Ryker.” Her breath hitches, and she swallows.
Oh, she is fighting this thing between us. Hard. But little does she know, I’ve never shied away from a little hard work.
I suck in a deep breath and whisper in her ear, “Say yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to put my elderly grandma’s mind at ease.”
“But why…why do I have to put her mind at ease?” she stammers.
I smirk. “Because we’re starting something here.”
Her head snaps back, hitting the wall. “We’re starting something?”
I’m sure there was supposed to be Rebecca Toler attitude packed into the question, but it came out breathily.
“Baby, we were starting something the minute that bell over the door rang as I walked into the gym for the first time.”
She adamantly shakes her head, but she obviously can’t find the words to lie. Smart girl.
I press my lips to her forehead and then yank the front door open. After I’m through the entranceway, I look over my shoulder and say, “I’ll pick you up at noon.”
While sitting on the couch, I look at the clock for what seems like the millionth time only to see that just one minute has passed since the last time I checked. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to remember the breathing techniques Sidney attempted to teach me last night. When my lungs feel as though they are about to burst, I let the air rush out and repeat the process. After four rounds, I haven’t achieved anything other than making myself lightheaded. I look a
t the clock again: 11:54.
Six minutes to go.
You can make it six more minutes.
I didn’t actually agree to this lunch, but Ryker didn’t give me the chance to decline. He was through the door and in his car before I could even comprehend what he had requested.
He used unfair tactics. Pinning me to the wall with his muscular body and then running his strong nose alongside mine before telling me that he’d fantasized about me was crass—albeit slightly arousing—but then he placed his soft lips on my forehead and I damn near melted into a pile of mush.
I was powerless to tell him no.
The moment he drove off, I went into panic mode, calling Sidney and begging her to come over and help me decide what to wear.
If this were a normal date, I’d have had no trouble picking out an outfit that would guarantee that Ryker would be eating out of the palm of my hand by the end of the night. But this isn’t any old date. No, I will be meeting his grandmother. After church. Which means she is probably an old-fashioned lady who wouldn’t take too kindly to her grandson showing up with a scantily clad bimbo on his arm.
Sidney showed up with two bottles of wine and a chocolate cake and immediately dove into my closet. After we’d pulled out every respectable item I owned and rejecting them all, I downed half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and cried.
Once she finally got me to calm down, she pulled together an outfit I approved of and left, eager to get back to Breccan and baby Olivia.
I’d spent the rest of the night obsessing over the what-ifs of our lunch date and polishing the chocolate cake off.
Once I meet Ryker’s grandmother and we are on our way, I will relax and the nerves will melt away. It’s the waiting that always works me up. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been ready for over an hour already and have nearly chewed my thumbnail off.
At exactly twelve o’clock, I hear Ryker’s car pull up. I spring to my feet and grab my purse from the table before rushing to the door. I pull it open in time to see him climbing from his car. He glances up when he hears me slam the door and waves at me with a wide smile.
