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Nana Marty said yes.
A tear rolls down my cheek when she finishes her story.
“Holy Moses, Blaire, stop being such a wuss.” She knocks down the rest of her spiked drink in one long gulp.
“I’m not crying because of the ending,” I sniff. “I'm just a tad emotional.”
And what's stirring my emotions is the fact that I really am like my grandmother. I, too, take a shine to bad boys, apparently. The only difference is, I'm pretty sure my story won't have a happily ever after. I fight the impulse to wipe my snot with my sleeve.
Nana awards me with the widest smile she can anatomically pull. “Here, pat your eyes before your eyeliner ends up in your mouth.” She hands me a tissue. "Now, tell me all about him.”
It’s funny how I’m able to tell my gran what I can’t imagine uttering in front of my own mother. My mother is the most motherly, don’t-leave-home-without-a-sweater type of person. Mom would judge, then worry, then try and convince me to open an account on JDate.
But still, I tense when I tell Nana that I went on a date with a guy who cage fights for a living and thinks painting your car doors with flames and skulls is acceptable, even if you're not sixteen anymore. And that despite our disastrous first date, we're meeting again tonight. But I don't want to date him. Only, sometimes, I kind of do.
“I think you like him.” Nana Marty leans forward, jabbing my ribcage with her manicured fingernail in accusation.
I nibble on my fingernails. “Maybe I do.”
“Then go get him."
"Oh, no. I can't. Not now. I have this assignment—"
"Multitask. You're a woman. We're good at that."
"And he has this tomcat reputation—"
"He’s single now, isn’t he? And he made it clear he's interested in you."
"But—"
"No buts. Your mother and father will warm up to the idea eventually. Their other daughter is splashed on magazine covers, wearing nothing but a thong and two seashells to cover her modesty.” Nana chuckles. “They’ll get used to your guy too. Besides, you’ve always been the little rebel. You must feed the reputation. Like me.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
God bless Nana. She really knows how to organize all the shelves in my messy head.
My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I begin to calm down.
It’s a text from Ty. I’m outside. Want me to come up and charm your old granny’s elastic panties off? Or are you coming down?
I smile and show Nana Marty his message. She toots, “Old granny, huh? I’ll eat your boy alive and strangle him with my Elizabeth Passion undies if he dares to come up here.”
A devilish spark makes me type her threat and press send. I watch as my cell screen darkens, and after two minutes of no reply, turn toward my gran.
“Maybe I pushed it a little too far. This is only our second date. Too soon to meet my grandmother.”
“If he’s as tough as he claims, the last thing he’s afraid of is an eighty-two-year-old with a weak pelvic floor.”
A firm rap on the door sends both our heads turning in the direction of the entrance.
Oh my God!
“Open up, Marty Rosenbloom.” Ty’s tone is amused, and I can’t help but feel like someone is tickling the inside of my stomach with a thousand tiny feathers.
Gran slides from her chair, her eyebrows arching in surprise, and opens the door with a smile. “Exactly what I’ve ordered.”
Her smile widens when she takes in the guy standing on her doorstep. She reaches for a handshake, but Ty takes her hand and kisses the back of it with a grin, not breaking their eye contact. He enters the apartment at complete ease, like they’ve known each other for centuries. He’s wearing tight skinny jeans paired with a black tee shirt, his tattoos on full, unapologetic display.
He looks the handsomest I have seen him yet. Something about this style makes him painfully irresistible.
“What are you guys drinking?” He inhales the fruity aroma, leaning toward me and pressing his lips to my ear. “Barbie,” he whispers into it.
I melt into my chair. Wait, am I seriously getting used to this stupid nickname?
“Sweet, alcoholic cider. Care for some?” Nana Marty dangles the nearly empty bottle in front of him.
“No thanks,” he declines politely. “Water would be great. Need any help, ma'am?”
Nana elbows me, doing a onceover of his body. “Chivalry and tattoos. He's a keeper. Seriously, Tyler, what can I get you?”
“Water,” he repeats. “I’m on a diet.”
Nana sends me a shocked look.
I shrug helplessly. “True story.”
She turns back to him. “But you mustn’t lose any weight. Your body’s perfect! Your butt is the cutest I’ve seen in twenty years, and boy, I’ve seen some cute butts in my lifetime.”
I redden and try not to look completely horrified. What the hell was I thinking? My grandmother is the queen of TMI. This conversation could easily devolve into my obsession with wearing my diapers on top of my head when I was a baby. This is bad. Actually, forgetting your oven is still turned on is bad. Letting your date meet your crazy grandmother is disastrous.
