He tried to remember if he’d had anything to eat today and couldn’t. “I’d love one.”
Chatting over her shoulder about why cheese should be its own food group, she led the way inside, heading for the kitchen. He followed, glancing at the clock near the stove and calculating how long he had until he needed to be back at his house. The electrical updates were getting underway this afternoon and he wanted to be there to make sure they didn’t short him on the number of outlets.
Grandma put the ice cream and bacon away, tucking them into the very bottom of the freezer behind other frozen items, and then hid the chocolate behind the bread tin.
He slid a kitchen chair closer and sat down. “Hiding your groceries, eh? Afraid Mom and Mark might steal your goodies?”
Grandma made a face. “My daughter is trying to kill me with health food.”
He grinned. “Mom is either at zero miles per hour or a hundred.”
“She’s at a hundred and fifty and I’m about to jump out of the car.”
He laughed, leaning back as he watched her pull out a cast-iron pan and melt some butter for their grilled cheeses. Soon, the smell of browning butter filled the air, reminding him of the times, as a child and then as a teenager, he’d sat in this exact chair at this exact angle watching his grandmother cook whenever she came for a visit. How many times had they reenacted this scene? A hundred times? Or more? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that when she came, she cooked, and he loved it. During his high school years, her visits had been the brightest spots.
He was sure he wasn’t the only person who’d hated high school. Other than those poor slobs who’d peaked at age sixteen and then spent the rest of their lives reliving their high school days as school quarterback, head cheerleader, or some other now-dismal teenage milestone, most people wouldn’t want to relive those awkward, less-than-fun years. For him, high school had been a painful, difficult time. He’d been swamped with the desolation of having lost his father and riddled with anxiety.
Anxiety. He mentally shook his head. It sounded like such an unassuming thing, when you thought about it. A feeling that something is wrong. Who doesn’t feel that way on occasion? But for him, it had been heavier than that. It had felt as if something catastrophic waited on him every minute of every single day. He’d struggled mightily with it, and it had taken him years to find a way to handle it that worked for him. Now he kept his caffeine intake to a single cup of coffee a day, ran regularly to burn off his extra adrenaline, had learned some useful breathing practices, and worked hard to focus on the present. That worked most days. Once in a while, he had to lean on his prescribed medication, but not often. He’d managed his anxiety for years now and felt at peace with his ability to do so.
But when he’d been a teenager—whew, things had been different then. There was only one thing he’d liked—no, loved—about high school, and that was—
No. There was no use thinking about her. She was a mirage. And that’s that.
“I’m glad you got here when you did,” Grandma said. “I hate eating alone.”
“I never say no to one of your grilled cheeses.” Gray got up and pulled a glass from the cabinet to fill it with filtered water from the refrigerator door. “Would you like some water?”
“No, thank you.” She pointed to her pan. “Real cheese and real butter, that’s the secret. You should see the egg white things your mother keeps making me for breakfast.” Grandma shuddered.
Gray nodded but wisely didn’t say anything. When it came to his mother and grandmother, it was best not to get in the middle.
Grandma glanced over her shoulder at him. “How’s your house coming?”
“Good.” And bad, too, because it was taking an annoying amount of his time away from the new hydroponic system he was installing in the barn. He’d always had a fascination with growing things, which was why, when he’d gotten a sudden windfall of cash, residuals from a discovery he’d made while working as a food chemist, he’d decided to quit his nine-to-five job and buy his dream farm. Of course, it wouldn’t be a “dream farm” until he finished setting it up, but he was getting there.
“Are you settled in your little apartment?”
He knew from the way she said “little apartment” that she didn’t like that he was living separately from the rest of his family.
He waited and sure enough, after a moment, she flipped the grilled cheese sandwiches and said in a waspish tone, “I don’t know why you just don’t stay here in the house with your mother, brother, and me. We don’t have cooties.”
“I like my privacy. This way I can come and go as I choose, and Mom isn’t giving me advice on the number of hours the CDC suggests we sleep.”
Grandma’s lips twitched. “She would do that.”
“She would. I know because she’s done it before. In fact, she did it just yesterday after seeing a light on in my apartment after midnight.”
“Ridiculous.” Grandma turned off the burner, slid the grilled cheese sandwiches onto two plates, and carried them to the table. She moved with the same assurance as his mom and was, in fact, similar in build and height. He wondered if they knew how much alike they really were. Probably not. I, for one, would never tell either of them that.
She went to fetch a mug. “I just made a pot of coffee. Want some?”
“No, thank you. I’m good with water for now.” He scooted his chair closer to the table and waited for her to join him.
She filled her coffee mug and carried it to the table, eyeing her plate with an air of appreciation as she sat down. “There. Proper food.”
“When have you had improper food?”
“You’d be surprised.” She moved her plate closer. “So. I hear you’re hanging out with a biker gang now.”
Gray had to fight to keep from saying something off-color. “Is that what she said?”
Grandma nodded.
“Travis Parker isn’t part of a biker gang. He rides a motorcycle, and that’s it.”
Grandma swallowed and then dabbed at the butter on her lip with her napkin. “That’s not how I heard it. I heard that Parker boy is trouble.”
“ ‘That Parker boy’ is nigh on thirty years old, owns his own garage, and is married to the town mayor.”
Grandma’s eyebrows rose. “Grace? I can’t see her with a biker gang type. She’s a sharp professional woman.”
“Exactly. Trav is a great guy. He’s adopted Daisy, the niece Grace has been raising. He’s not wild or in a gang, and his bike is a regular motorcycle.” Gray might have been stretching things a little about the bike. Trav’s motorcycle was anything but “regular,” but then what did you expect when Western North Carolina’s best mechanic invested in a motorcycle? Of course it would be spectacular. Trav is going to owe me a cold one for standing up for him.
Grandma tsked. “Your mom is out on that situation, then.” She finished half of her sandwich and started on the second half.
He eyed her plate. He’d had only a few bites so far. “Hungry?”
“I had gruel for breakfast. It doesn’t stay with you.”
“I bet.” Gray pulled his plate closer and dug in.