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The kitchen smells like heaven by the time the dish is done. Lu shows us how to plate the food, starting with a creamy, cheesy pool of grits on the bottom of a shallow bowl. She tops it with the shrimp and its broth-like tomato-ey gravy, which is dotted with andouille sausage and bits of onion and garlic. Finally, she sprinkles the top with some sliced green onion.
“Damn.” Abel closes his eyes as he digs in. “That isgood.”
Lu’s eyes are bright. “I’m glad you like it. I did a riff on Joe’s recipe—my Aunt Lady swears white cheddar and grits are an unbeatable combo. I have to agree.”
The dish is a flavor bomb: the grits are satisfyingly rich, the gravy is perfectly spiced, and the shrimp are expertly cooked.
But the best part? Watching Abel go back for seconds, and then thirds. You’d think the man hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Save some for Tuck and Maren,” I say, laughing.
Abel polishes off the last shrimp in his bowl. “Sorry. I can’t help myself. Guess it reminds me of home. All those Sundays sitting around your dad’s table. I miss it.”
My heart squeezes. “I miss it too.”
“Well, now that y’all know how to make shrimp and grits, you can recreate those Sunday suppers anytime you like,” Lu says.
Abel shakes his head. “Too many onions would have to die for that to happen.”
I laugh, feeling full in every sense of the word. How great would it be, though, for Abel and me to create our own traditions? To host our own Sunday supper, friends and family gathering around our table?
For that to happen, we need to win Tuck over.
I help Lu pack up separate Pyrex containers for the grits and the shrimp, my nerves taking over. The cooking class took my mind off our impending visit to my brother, but now that the class is over, it’s all I can think about.
Abel and I have to put on a show. Make my brother believe we’re not only a couple, but ahappycouple. At the very least, I hope to convince him to talk to us. I hate being shut out like this.
Abel heads upstairs to put on some shoes. Lu wipes down the counters while I pack a bag with all the food.
“I lied,” she says.
Blinking, I look at her. “About what?”
“Y’all being good at pretending.” Lu opens the trash and drops a handful of dirty paper towels inside. “The way y’all look at each other—that’s very real. I hope you take that as a compliment.”
I gulp the watery remnants of my margarita. The denial is on the tip of my tongue. But I suddenly feel exhausted by the energy it’s taken to keep pretending I’m not hopelessly in love with Abel.
“Am I that obvious?” I murmur.
Lu scoffs. “Abel’s worse. Or better. But yes, it’s pretty obvious, Jen.”
I glance at the stairs. “I’d be with him. For real. If he asked.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
I could. I should. But the timing has to be right. “It just feels delicate right now. I want him to stop assuming the worst about himself. I’m trying to make him see that his story will be different from his parents’. If I can do that, I feel like he’d give us a chance.”
“Abel is a tough nut to crack. But I see it happening already. The way he touches you. How he watches you, and makes sure you always have what you need.” She offers me a soft smile. “He’s sweet with you. And Abel is not sweet.”
“Who’s not sweet?”
I turn at the sound of his voice. He’s smiling at me, brown eyes locked on mine.
“You. Who else?” I tease.
He curls a hand around my nape. “I’ll try on sweet if it makes your brother wanna murder me a little less.”
“Riley’s worried about y’all,” Lu says. “He’s anxious for the three of you to work things out.”
