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When we reach Sugar and Sips, Gran stops abruptly. “There’s a girl.”
I glance around. Jolene Daniels is sitting at an outside table with Maggie Edelstein. Mrs. Jackson, our town’s famed quilting maven, is sipping her coffee next to them.
“There are several girls,” I say warily, unsure what she’s getting at. “If we’re playing I Spy, I need more of a clue.”
She mumbles, “Pain in my ass.” Then says louder, “I’ve been thinking on it, and as far as I can guess, the only reason you’d alter your weekend schedule is because of a girl.”
Last time I lied to Gran, I was fifteen. E and I stole her tractor for a joyride and got it stuck in a ditch. Terrified of her iron fist, I proceeded to run to her farmhouse and ranted about some wild man who must have stolen her tractor and ditched it. She took one look at my shifty eyes and trembling hands, and said, “Avett Samuel Lewis, you are a liar and a thief. As such, you’ll clean the horse stalls every weekend for a year.”
Instead of attempting to evade her lie-detector skills, I reply with a pathetic, “Maybe?”
She makes a clucking sound. “Am I here to meet this new woman in your life because she’s important to you, or have you dragged your grandmother into town like bait so you can puff up your chest and strut around like a peacock, proving how doting and kind of a grandson you are?”
I shrink, attempting to make my six-foot-two frame smaller. How can she read me so easily? “I plead the Fifth.”
She harrumphs. “You’ll be pleading something, all right. Let’s get this over with.”
This is why I should never alter my routines. Bad things happen when change occurs, and I’ve grossly miscalculated this stunt.
When I planned this outing, I pictured Gran and I playing cribbage at a table inside, joking and chatting the way we do. Naomi would watch us periodically, touched and moved by our close relationship. In that iteration, Gran wasn’t onto my scheme, intent on foiling my efforts.
Now I’m no longer hoping Naomi is inside for her usual Saturday morning work session. I’m praying she’s not here.
But my luck is lousy.
The second the chiming door slides shut behind us, I spot Naomi nestled in one of the loveseats by the side window. I try not to let my eyes linger on the way her yellow T-shirt hangs enticingly off one smooth shoulder. I bite my cheek when I remember touching her leg—which is on display in criminally short jean shorts—to apply her bandage.
Schooling my face, I focus on the chalkboard menu behind the counter. “Do you want your usual peppermint tea this morning?”
Gran doesn’t reply. To my horror, she yanks me to the right and walks toward Naomi.
This is not okay. I am not okay. On a scale of candid to viciously frank, Gran’s bluntness hovers aroundsomeone shoot me now.
Naomi looks up as we approach. Her eyes dart back and forth between what must be my expression of abject fear and Gran’s determinedly pursed lips.
“Hi, Avett…” Naomi says slowly, removing her hands from her laptop keyboard. I glimpse what looks like a jungle and ruins on her screen, but she abruptly shuts her computer. “I never see you on Saturdays.”
“Right, well.” I debate the best thing to say to avoid Gran unleashing enough honesty to bury me. There’s no clear path forward. “This is my grandmother, by the way. Don’t think you’ve ever met.”
Complete avoidance for the win.
The cotton of my T-shirt chafes my chest. Sweat builds along the waistline of my shorts.
Naomi narrows her eyes at me, then smiles at Gran. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lewis. I think you took a yarn class with my dad once.”
I’ve always found Naomi’s parents cool. I don’t know them well, but her mother’s an orthopedic surgeon, and her father’s a knitter who sells scarves and sweaters and baby blankets to shops, while teaching knitting classes. They’ve flipped society’s gender expectations when it comes to work and financial support, but their interesting jobs do nothing to distract me from my rising anxiety.
“Yes, dear,” Gran says, clasping her hands. “I believe I did take that class. And I think my grandson has a crush on you.”
I close my eyes and pray for this to be a horrible nightmare. Naomi’s muffled laugh makes it clear I’m sadly awake.
“Does he now?” Naomi is elated. She’s high on my discomfort. A glow of mischief turns her eyes into twin orbs of wicked delight. “The evidence I’ve collected over the years refutes that theory. Your grandson is awful to me.”
Gran pinches my side. “This isn’t grade school, Avett. Being mean to girls doesn’t win them over.”
Apparently, introducing them to my grandmother doesn’t win them over either. “Gran’s off her meds,” I tell Naomi. “Don’t listen to anything she says.”
Gran lifts her chin haughtily, as though affronted. “Have you ever heard a grandson be so cruel to his last living grandparent?” Pearl Lewis loves an audience and putting on a show. She’s also single-handedly ruining my efforts to show Naomi my softer side.
