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“Oh, I don’t think—” I started, but she quickly and efficiently cut me off.
“Honey, no one asked you to think. We asked you to stay for dinner,” she deadpanned.
The woman was a damn shark.
I looked at Weston, another cry for help, but he only shrugged his shoulders and picked at some of the meat Beverly had just uncovered to warm up in the oven.
“Why don’t you go put a shirt on, Scoots?” she ordered more than asked. “I want to have a conversation here with your lady friend, and I don’t want her being distracted by all of that.” She gestured wildly with her hand to his body and I damn near choked on my own spit.
This woman was a damn trip.
I could see where Weston got his bossiness from now.
But she was right. I was definitely distracted by all of that and he should go put on a shirt ASAP so that I didn’t embarrass myself in front of his mom by drooling all over the place.
Weston left the kitchen, I presumed to do what his mother said because, let me tell you, there was no way in hell I wouldn’t listen to her. She was scary as hell.
I stood next to her at the counter in Weston’s old kitchen that I’d never been in and noticed how outdated it was. Old beige cabinets and white appliances. It was small but cozy and thankfully clean.
Beverly placed an onion, a cutting board, and a knife in front of me. “All right, sugar. You dice that up good while I put this meat in the oven with your pot pie and toast some buns.”
It looked like we were having pulled pork sandwiches and my chicken pot pie for dinner, and I was staying whether I liked it or not.
I washed my hands and got to work dicing up an onion while Beverly worked on the buns and Alan sat on the other side of the counter in the small dining, doing what looked like a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
“Nice of my scoots to come over and take care of your grass for you. Your husband doesn’t mow?” She was buttering the buns and fishing at the same time. She was a great multitasker, this woman.
“My husband passed away five years ago,” I said quietly, dicing my onion.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss, honey.” She continued working around me but didn’t ask any more intrusive questions
And because I hated the silence, I tried to make small talk. “Scoots is a cute nickname.” I grinned over at her briefly before cleaning up the onion mess I made.
“Mmmhmm.” She threw the onions I chopped in a pan with some butter and garlic salt and pepper. “Used to be Scootie Pootie, but I shortened it when he got older.” She giggled a bit. “Scoots is less embarrassing.” She pretended to whisper to me, but it was the loudest damn whisper I’d ever heard.
“No, it’s not,” Weston said, striding into the room and placing a kiss on his mother’s cheek.
“Oh, you love it,” she argued before looking back at me. “He’s never once complained about it.”
“Yes, I have,” he said, coming to stand next to me in the kitchen.
“Not since you were twelve years old,” she said, stirring the onions.
I couldn’t help but grin my face off. These two had the funniest relationship I’d ever seen. They clearly liked to give each other shit, but neither one of them took it personally.
Weston’s mother was ballsy and as brash as him but in a saucier way. He was a grump on a good day and downright bully on a bad one, but she didn’t seem to pay him any mind.
You could tell she took him as he was and simply adored him. It was precious and hilarious, their back and forth.
I envied his odd relationship with his mother since I didn’t have one at all with mine. They went back and forth until dinner was ready and we finally all crowded around Weston’s small four-person table.
We filled our plates with sandwiches and pot pie and the food was delicious, the company entertaining. I had my share of laughs, although I had to admit sometimes they were at Weston’s expense.
Although, I should have known old Beverly would come for me eventually.
“So, what do you do for a living?” Beverly asked me after we’d eaten our fill and our plates were mostly empty.
“I’m a hairdresser,” I answered, picking at some pulled pork on my plate.
