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NORA: Really?
GRAM: Always worked for me back in the day.
NORA: I’ll take that under advisement, but I might need something a little racier. I just flashed half my bare bottom to him before I came into the bathroom, and he still managed to resist following me in here.
GRAM: Oh, sweetheart, he must be batting for the other team, then. Thank God! You always did get confused about that. Remember when you had a crush on George Michael when you were little? I didn’t have the heart to tell you he wasn’t really singing about girls in any of those songs.
NORA: He’s not gay, Gram.
GRAM: George Michael is absolutely gay, Nora. Or was. Such a talent. Gone too soon, God rest his soul.
NORA: Agreed, but I didn’t mean George Michael. I meant the man I’m with. He’s straight. No doubt in my mind.
GRAM: All right, baby. Whatever you say. I love you. Keep in touch. Send me an email if you don’t want to text again. And be careful on the roads if you’re out and about the next few days. The weatherman says the storm might get stuck over Minnesota and dump a dangerous amount of rain. November weather just isn’t what it used to be. Back when I was young, this would have been the first snowstorm of the year. We’d be making snow ice cream, not worrying about floods.
NORA: All right. Since you’ve moved on to talking about the weather, I’m going to assume you’re no longer worried about me, and I’m free to go. Love you, miss you, see you soon, but I will have to gently murder you if you ever talk to a reporter about my sex life again.
GRAM: Well, as long as it’s gentle *smiley face emoji* Love you to the moon and back, darling and don’t lose hope. You’re going to find a straight one, sooner or later.
Chapter Eight
MATTY
Nora emerges from her shower in the flannel pajamas I brought her, with pink cheeks and a strange light in her eyes.
I arch a brow from the table, where I’m raking green beans onto our plates beside piping hot chicken pot pies. “Everything okay?”
She hums beneath her breath. “I’m not sure, I’ll let you know,” she says, mysteriously. She drifts into the bedroom to put her dirty things in the laundry basket by the bureau. When she emerges, she’s still watching me like a stink bomb, she suspects might explode at any minute.
“Decided pot pies don’t sound good, after all?” I ask, as she crosses to the table.
“No, they sound great.” She pulls out a chair, settling in. “They smell even better. Thanks for making them. Should we dig in?”
“Sure thing. You want a beer?” I ask, motioning toward the fridge. “I have a mixed case from Ugly Dog Brewery in there.”
“How about wine?” she asks in a tone that makes it feel like a trick question.
“Um, yeah. Red, good?”
“That’s perfect.” She pokes her fork into the center of her pot pie, sending a rush of steam rising around her face.
I fetch the wine from the small pantry and twist the top off before collecting two wineglasses from the open shelves. I pour Nora a glass and myself a smaller one before sitting down across from her.
She notices the pour difference, of course—she notices everything, that’s why we’re here right now, on the run from Wimpy and the rest of the Sweetwater crew—and asks, “Still worried about keeping watch tonight? You think we should stay sober?”
“You can have a couple glasses if you want,” I say. “I’m going to play it safe. Just in case. But no, I think we’re fine.”
“Good.” She takes a slow sip of her wine, watching me over the rim before setting it down with a nod. “That’s nice. I love Pinot.”
“I can’t take any credit for the selection,” I confess, digging into my meal. “Melissa gave me a case of a bunch of different kinds of wine for Christmas last year. She’s the food and wine expert. I’m the handy twin who builds things and likes fast cars.”
“And a genius,” she says. “Don’t you speak like…three languages?”
“Five,” I say, embarrassed by the disclosure, the way I always am. People are always so impressed, but it seems wrong to take too much credit for something that’s always come easily to me. “But that’s just because my brain is good at that sort of thing. I didn’t do much better in math or science than the other honor roll kids and not nearly as well as Barrett or Wes. They’re the real geniuses.”
“I didn’t make the honor roll a single time in high school,” she says as she delicately skewers a few green beans on the tip of her fork. “B and C student all the way. I was too busy making elaborate costumes for Halloween and every school dance to waste time studying or put too much effort into my research papers.”
I nod as I chew and swallow. “See, just goes to show making the honor roll doesn’t mean shit as far as what a person will do in the long run. You’re probably more successful than every honor roll nerd in your class combined.”
