And that’s empowering.
Phones at the table are frowned upon in my family. But I think my lunch experience needs some enhancement. I don’t get a lot of text messages. Chances are good that it’s Beck. And, if it is, chances are even better that my lunch experience will improve.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and hide it under the table in my lap.
Beck: Breaking for lunch. Been thinking about you. How’s your day going?
Pressing my lips together so my smile won’t give me away, I relish the warm tingle that climbs up my sternum.
Me: WEDNESDAYS ARE MY LEAST FAVORITE DAYS.
Holding tight to my phone in one hand, I stir my tea with the other. I’m not sure if I succeed in acting naturally, but a scan of the table shows no one is watching me.
Beck: Why are they your least favorite?
ME: ON WEDNESDAY, MY MOM, MY SISTER, AND I HAVE LUNCH WITH MY GRANDMOTHER. SHE IS NOT A FAN OF MINE. THE FEELING IS MUTUAL.
I’ve only shared a little about the October Skirmish with Beck. Mostly just my apology for Mom’s behavior and a bit about Mom and Dad’s secret keeping. I’m not about to say anything to him about group homes.
I’d die first.
It has been a while since a guy paid any attention to me. But that’s not why I like him. Just because someone pays attention to you doesn’t mean that it’s welcome. Sometimes another person’s attention can make you feel like an oyster having its shell pried open.
But oysters open their shells to breathe and eat. Basically, when they feel safe. And that’s how Beck’s attention feels. Like it’s safe to breathe and eat. Like it’s safe to just be.
And I don’t want to lose that feeling just now. I don’t like the idea of anyone thinking I need to live in a group home. Not my parents. Not Margaret.
And definitely not Beck.
Beck: Hmm. Trying to imagine someone not being a fan of yours. Nope. Can’t do it.
There it is again. That warm tingle. Like sparklers on parade.
Me: GRANDMA ELOISE IS A FAN OF ONLY A FEW THINGS: SCOWLING. JUDGING. RIDICULING. OH, AND BON TEMPS GRILL.
Beck: Sounds like she has a lot in common with my dad.
Is that where you are? Bon Temps?
Me: UNFORTUNATELY, YES.
Beck: What’s wrong with them? They buy our Beauregard Sweets.
Me: THEY DO?? I WONDERED! I WILL ORDER THE MASH!!
I’M SICK OF COMING HERE FOR LUNCH. THE MENU HAS TOO MANY LEGS.
Beck: You lost me. Too many legs??
I look up again, grateful that now Mom, Grandma, and Margaret are deep in conversation about Margaret and Merrick’s honeymoon plans. They are going to Hawaii. Grandma Eloise has known this for a couple of months. So this is not the first time I’ve heard her input.
“Brace yourself for the positively staggering amounts of homeless people, Margaret,” she says, scowling. She lifts a bony, liver-spotted hand. “Tent cities on every median. Under every bridge. You can’t throw a stone without hitting a homeless person.”
I snort. “Margaret would never throw stones! And certainly not at a homeless person.”
Mom grabs my wrist again under the table. Luckily, it’s not the one I’m using to hold my phone.
“It’s a figure of speech, dear.”
