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“That’s kind of the boys to help,” Mom says.
Lady and I meet eyes. “It’s Coop’s wedding too,” I say. “Shouldn’t he be helping?”
“He did knock up the bride,” Lady says.
It’s Mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Who’s his best man again?”
I lift a shoulder. “Guy named DR. I’ve actually never met him. I guess he’s an old friend of Cooper’s? I feel like I should know more, but that’s Goldie and Coop for you.”
Cooper and Goldie have had a whirlwind romance. Less than a year ago, Goldie went home with Cooper after meeting at a bar, and she never ended up leaving his place. Three months later they were engaged, and two months ago I got the call that they were expecting, which meant their wedding date would get pushed up several months.
Over the course of their very short engagement, they’ve both mentioned DR in passing. He was even supposed to come to Charlotte at one point so the four of us could go to dinner, but he ended up canceling because of a work commitment.
DR came up again recently, when he pulled some strings and nabbed Goldie and Coop their top choice for a venue, the terrace at The Ocean Club. It’s the newer (and nicer) of the island’s two clubs. But amidst the chaos of planning a wedding in one month, I never asked about him.
Lady sets breakfast in front of me. My stomach grumbles at the familiar smell rising from her famous grits bowl: cheesy grits, topped with a perfectly poached egg, tomato gravy, and chopped scallions. “Good thing I already made breakfast.”
Eyes filling, I set down my mug. “Bless you. This is—really, it’s such a treat, Lady. Thank you.”
My aunt pats my hand. “I love you, honey. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
Her kindness makes the tears spill over. I dab at them with the napkin my mom presses into my hand. She tucks my hair behind my ear and rubs my shoulder.
“Does it make me an asshole to say I’m jealous of Goldie and Coop’s love story?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head. “Of course not. Just makes you honest.”
“I’m happy for Goldie. I really am, I just . . .”
“You can hold both those things at once,” Lady says. “Being jealous of your friend while also being thrilled for her. Life isn’t meant to be neat, or neatly compartmentalized.”
I sniffle. “Then why does it seem like it’s neat and perfect for everyone else?”
“Fucking social media.” My aunt makes a face. “I’ve learned to be wary of anyone who says things are neat and perfect. Those ‘shiny’ people are usually full of shit.”
Mom furrows her brow. “I’d like to think people can be genuinely happy.”
“Of course they can! But no one is happy all the time. Things can’t be perfect all the time. That’s not how life works.”
“Instagram would beg to differ.” I dig into my grits and nearly pass out from the extreme deliciousness of it all. The butter, the cheese, the creamy egg yolk.
Patrick went paleo a couple years ago, and after he kept telling me how great it made him feel and I should try it, I did too. Which means I haven’t eaten a carb in years.
I forgot how much better they make life.
“Damn, Aunt Lady, this is killer.”
“I know.” She smiles. “How about the three of us cook dinner together tonight? We could pour some wine. Fisherman Joe has had really great shrimp lately, so maybe we could barbecue ’em up?”
“Yes,” I breathe, already tasting the tangy, buttery sauce Granny taught me how to make in this very kitchen more than a decade ago.
Granny and, when she slowed down, Aunt Lady were the ones who really nurtured my love of cooking. I was five when I asked Granny if I could help her make her famous blueberry and buttermilk popsicles. I distinctly remember the sheer pleasure of pouring the sugar over the berries in a pot. She’d let me stir the jammy mixture until the blueberries broke down and the sugar melted, making this sweet, slightly tart mixture we’d pour into molds, then top with buttermilk and vanilla cake crumbles.
She loved having company in the kitchen, and I loved having one-on-one time with her. She always seemed so much less stressed than Mom did. More pleasant, I guess. Granny was not only patient with me, she also made me feel safe to be who I really was. Bookish, quiet. A dreamer who once upon a time fantasized about growing up to be an author and restauranteur.
Things I felt my social butterfly of a mother didn’t always appreciate.
Lady began to help out more in the kitchen when I was in high school. Vegetables are her specialty, but seafood will always be her first love. Before I moved in with Patrick, Lady would visit me often back in Charlotte. We’d spend most of our time together in the kitchen, cooking, drinking, and laughing. Eating too, of course.
