“You can’t do that, Uncle Paul,” Griffin says. And I hear the tightness in his throat, the emotion that threatens to choke him because I feel it in mine.
Our uncle sits back in his chair, tired and unhappy. Beside him, Pop looks downright ill. I don’t even feel like the same person who rolled out of bed this morning, happier than I’ve felt in years—after talking to Hattie all night.
A spasm of longing grips my heart. It makes no sense, but the thought of her right now is like a lighthouse. The only bright spot in a storm.
“Then give me a better option,” Paul says wearily.
And, fuck me, because I’ve got nothing.
Chapter Ten
HATTIE
Margaret eyes me pointedly from across the living room. She’s sitting on the loveseat with Merrick—because of course she is.
Mom and Dad are on the sofa sectional. Dad’s got the Saints game on but Mom makes him turn the sound down when we’re together. She says it’s for me—which I appreciate because the dissonant crowd sounds, announcers shouting, and the cutaway network music make me want to peel my skin off—but I think Mom hates it almost as much as I do. She’s got her cross stitching in her lap, a set of pillowcases she’s monogramming for Margaret and Merrick, and she’d probably be happiest if the TV wasn’t on at all.
I am rocking. The Hadley double rocker used to be Mom’s favorite spot, but I claimed it as mine years ago. And even though it can seat two people, no one else in my family finds comfort in my double-time stimming tempo.
Grandma Eloise left a few minutes ago—thank God. She usually doesn’t stay long after Sunday dinner. (Thank you, God, for that too.) Things were definitely strained, today being the first time we shared space since The Cranky Old Twat incident.
No, I have not apologized. Yes, that was all Mom could talk about on the way to church today. I sat in the back of the car with my headphones on, pretending I couldn’t hear. I wore them in church, on the way home, and all through Sunday dinner.
I took them off as soon as the door closed behind Grandma Eloise.
Yes, my ears hurt, and I have a low-level headache from wearing them for four hours. Yes, I would do it again.
I really need a nap. But after my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date yesterday, I did call Margaret as per her demands, and I did begrudgingly agree that I’d tell Mom and Dad that I’m going on dates.
I refuse to say dating. Although I would date Beck in a heartbeat, I cannot say that I’m “dating” him. We’ve been on one date. But minus the Ms. Alicia Kiss Interference, it was hands down not only the best date of my life, but maybe even one of the best days of my life. Still, to say that we’re dating would be wholly premature and even untrue since dating Beck would require his expressed consent.
Just like with the kissing.
Consent.
My circulatory system fizzes over when I think about that word and Beck. Beck giving it. Beck asking for it.
Consent is hot as fuck!
Margaret loudly clears her throat, puncturing my Consent reverie, which has left my face flushed and my fingertips tingling.
I scowl at her.
We need to go soon, she mouths. Get on with it.
This was part of the deal. That she and Merrick would be here while I told Mom and Dad and they would support me if things got weird. None of us has forgotten the fact that Mom already met Beck and she treated him like some kind of perv.
Heretofore known as the genesis of The October Skirmish.
And now Margaret is eyeballing me like countless teachers over the years, waiting for me to formulate a response that defies formulation.
How do you tell your overprotective parents that you’ve met someone you want to give all your consent to? I almost never say the right thing, but I know that if I open my mouth right now, I’ll surely say the wrong thing.
I glance at Merrick. He’s smiling gently at me. He’s ready to leave. I know he is. They have a pickleball game scheduled this afternoon with his best man and a few others. But he’s not wearing a look of impatience. He just gives me a secret nod of encouragement.
Merrick is the best. I swear.
But my awesome future brother-in-law’s support doesn’t make the right words materialize on my tongue, so I glance back at Margaret and let our sister telepathy do its thing.
