Page 45 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

“I thought they kicked you out.”

She scoffed. “I’m a paying member. They can’t just kick me out. They strongly suggested that I find a different hobby. And I strongly suggested they could shove their suggestion up their—”

“Mom!”

“Lola, I didn’t raise you to be a prude,” she said. “And stop changing the subject! You have a boyfriend, and I want to meet him.”

“But he’s not my—”

“Tonight, for family dinner. I’m making spaghetti.”

“But—”

“Lola Gladys Maloney.” Mom’s tone was stern in that way that meant don’t even try it. So I didn’t even try it.

Instead, I sighed and gave in. “What time?”

“Seven sharp.”

Mom hung up. I buried my face in my hands and flinched when the motion sent a shooting pain through my injured wrist.

Everything had gone from good to bad to worse in about twenty-four hours. I had just learned that my employee-slash-work-crush was an alien from another planet, I needed to change Southern Charm’s entire menu in less than two weeks, and now I had to introduce said employee-slash-work-crush-slash-alien to my entire family. Over spaghetti.

And of the list of predicaments, I was most concerned about Kal meeting my family.

I looked at the clock. Moved my hurt wrist experimentally. Immediately regretted doing that, then popped two painkillers in my mouth, hoping they’d be enough to get me through the lunch shift.

There was always a point when I was ready to make a big change where everything felt worse and more chaotic. I called it the spring cleaning effect.

Everything came out of hiding—all the junk I’d been storing away, all the bills and other official paper copies of things I had no clue what to do with, all the clothes I would never wear. I’d go through it all, and turn my home into a disaster zone. About halfway through, I would always get overwhelmed. Happened every time without fail. I would end up surrounded by piles and piles of my own entropic undertaking, crying my eyes out with Celine Dion playing in the background.

But then it would get better. Slowly and surely, it would get better. I just happened to be in the big pile of trash phase, and that sucked.

I had so much to do and no immediate plan to handle all of it, other than to keep pushing through. I considered my situation. There was the fake-boyfriend thing, which I was handling poorly. The sprained wrist thing—not being dealt with on account of not having health insurance, but having a million other responsibilities on my plate. The new challenge of having to completely revamp a restaurant menu so that I could maybe win a regional contest, so that I could maybe save our family business. That priority was pretty high up there. And, of course, the harboring an alien factor.

All of that, and I was still dealing with the fact that aliens weren’t creepy little green dudes with big heads and huge eyes. Because my alien was basically a non-creepy green supermodel with a heart of gold. And tentacles. Can’t forget about the tentacles.

But I needed to forget about the tentacles because I needed to focus.

I closed my eyes and made a mental list of what needed to happen next, in order of importance.

Update Southern Charm’s menu. Confirm the date the contest judges would be visiting. Freshen up the exterior of the restaurant to actually look the part of a first-place winner. Kiss Kal again.

I shook my head. Eyes on the prize, Lola. Stop thinking about that. Get back to the menu.

I rolled back in my chair and opened the drawer, pulling out the one thing I knew would help, and found myself in a one-on-one standoff with Grandma’s recipe book.

I stared at its cover while it judged me from the desk. Nearly all of my favorite meals from childhood were written down in that notebook. It was the culmination of years and years of my grandma’s cooking, and the basis for everything on Southern Charm’s menu.

In that moment, the recipe book felt more like an anchor than inspiration.

I had always loved cooking with Grandma Gladys, but when I went to culinary school, I was ready to do something different. Don’t get me wrong—her food was delicious. But it was hers, not mine. And now they belonged to Walter.

Coming home and cooking the same dishes as they’ve always been reminded me of being stuck in an airport and realizing you’d forgotten your passport. So close to the next step, but so far from the final destination.

My fingers lingered over the grease stains and flecks of ancient, mysterious kitchen grime so petrified it wouldn’t come off. The words across the front still made me giggle. Foolproof Recipes for a Damn Good Home-Cooked Meal.

She was always so serious, my grandma, but to the point of paradox. So serious that it looped back around to being funny. And despite her rules and hard stances, she never actually took herself too seriously. I’d loved that about her. She owned the many facets of herself. Never backed down from her convictions, but always stayed humble and so, so fierce.