Page 126 of The Exit Strategy

COLE

I don’t knowwhat I was thinking.

Sure, I can cook. If by cook, you mean toss a block of meat on the grill and not let it burn.

Is that what I offered Junie?

Fuck no.

I had to go and shoot my shot by offering to cook dinner.

And not just cook dinner, but I took it up a notch by insinuating that I can cook well.

Now I’m sweating like a man about to face punishment for missing curfew and trying to make sense of Google’s recipe for manicotti.

“Pipe in the filling?” What the hell are they talking about?

I’m halfway to the garage for a piece of PVC when a new Google search stops me in my tracks.

How do you pipe food?

Returning to the kitchen, I blindly open cabinets.

In lieu of a piping bag, a gallon zip-top bag may be used.

At least I know where those are.

Why the hell didn’t I ask one of the literal hundred grandmothers I have in this neighborhood for help?

Because you’re a stubborn fuck-face who would rather bite his own arm off just to prove he could.

I’ve been talking with Hudson too much lately.

“Cole Whittaker! What in the ever-living hell are you doing?”

I’m elbow deep in a Ziploc bag and a questionable ricotta mixture when Nana Mae’s voice has my shoulders rising to my ears.

“Just…” I turn my head as her mouth drops open.

She’s wearing a blouse that means Dollie’s playing her wing woman tonight at bingo, and now not only do I need to figure out dinner, I also need to bleach out my eyes, ears, and memory.

The last time Dollie played wing woman, Nana Mae ended up with three dates and some deliveries from Tender Mercies. I will never live it down if Nolan and Hud find out that my grandmother ordered products from their—ah—self-carebusiness.

“What happened in here?”

“I’m making dinner for Junie,” I growl.

“Don’t you sass me, young man.”

Before I can tell her I’m fine, she’s already putting an apron over her head and pushing up her sleeves.

“You’re going to get shit all over you,” I say.

“You fool,” she mutters. “Why are you so damn stubborn? What time’s she coming over?”

Nana Mae hip-checks me while taking the leaking mess of ricotta from my hands and holding the bag open so I can dump the rest of the mixture in.

“Seven.”