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“It’s something that makes things slick.”
“Slick?”
“Yeah, like—” Jesus, why was I drawing a blank? My mind was so far in the gutter, I couldn’t find a PG example.
“Like lotion,” Emilia said in amusement. “Or soap.”
“Oh,” Rhett said, drawing out the word as he nodded. Then he looked at Gramps in confusion. “You name?”
“They call me Grease,” Gramps said.
Rhett wrinkled his nose.
“But his mother named him Asa,” Grams chimed in. “That’s his real name.”
“Asa,” Rhett mused.
“I like that name better, too,” Grams agreed.
“Grease is better than Mr. Hawthorne,” Gramps said, going back to his food. “Which is what your mama called me for a long ass time.”
“It’s a sign of respect,” Emilia said defensively.
“Not respectful if someone asks you to use a different name,” Gramps argued.
“Are we really having this conversation again?” Emilia asked in amusement. “I started calling you gramps, just like you asked.”
“Only took ya a solid year,” Gramps muttered.
“You’re planning on staying at Mick—” Grams paused. It was only for a second, but I noticed.
“I’ll always be Mick,” I said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Grew out of that shit. Promise.”
Grams squeezed my hand back.
“You’re planning on staying at Micky’s while you get on your feet?” she asked Emilia.
“Yeah.” Emilia glanced at me. “That’s the plan.”
“Well, good. You let me know when you find a job. We’d love to have Rhett over one day a week.”
“That would be so awesome,” Emilia said, her eyes lighting up.
“I’d ask for more days than that,” Grams said with a grin. “But Heather might kill me if I take away her babysitting time.”
Emilia laughed.
“Club’s havin’ a barbeque next weekend,” Gramps said to me. “You’ll be there?”
“Hadn’t heard anythin’ about it.”
“Tellin’ ya now,” he replied with a scowl.
“We’ll talk it over.”
Gramps scoffed. “You’ll be there,” he said knowingly.
“Emilia’s never been to a club party.”
