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If I give into Dane now, I’ll be like every other bimbo he sleeps with. Plus, we can’t keep kissing and having sex when we don’t know where this is going. Obviously, we both love the sex, but there’s our friendship to think about.
“Sorry.” I shrug my shoulders and smile. It’s better for him to find out now that I’m not going to fall at his feet even if I want to.
“But…”
“Looky here,” my grandfather says, “My two favorite people.” He lets out a hearty laugh as he grabs us both, one in each arm.
“Lil Bit, come help me,” Granny yells through the open kitchen window.
“Coming.” I press on my toes, giving Paps a kiss on the cheek.
Granny hands me the hand mixer. I grab the milk, butter, and salt and set it beside the bowl before plugging in the mixer.
“Just eyeball it.”
“It’d be easier if you just told me how much.”
Granny has had a hard life but a mostly happy one, and I like to think I’m one of the reasons for her happiness. But it’s her sayings that always make me do one of two things: laugh or contemplate.
“Life is like mashed potatoes; sometimes you get lumps, and sometimes they’re as smooth as silk. What’s going on with you and Dane? Are we in the smooth as silk stage?” she asks.
Is she a freakin mind reader?
“What do you mean? Dane and I are what we always are.”
“Best friends and nothing more?” She pauses, moving her spatula in circles. “I’ve seen the look that boy has been giving you and the one you’re trying to hide.”
How can she know? I turn the mixer on high, hoping the whirring will drown out her questions.
“Don’t go too fast; you'll make the potatoes tough.”
“Is that a metaphor for something?” I ask.
“Just slow down.”
A little too late for that.
Not knowing if she’s referring to Dane and me or the potatoes, I slow the mixer to medium speed. I add the butter first, so it melts before pouring the milk into the mixture. Another round of mixing, then I salt and pepper to taste. Granny leans around my arm, dips her own spoon into the creamy mixture, tasting it. “Perfect, call the boys to vittles.”
Granny had my mom when she was sixteen, and my mom got pregnant with me at fifteen so even though Granny is older than most of my friends’ moms, it’s not by much. She’s beautiful, even weathered and worn. But if she had the money, and if she cared, she could be on one of the homemaker magazines. “Seamstress of the Year shares her Mashed Potato Recipe.”
As I tell Paps and Dane that supper is ready, I look around, recognizing that nothing has changed from the rusted red lawn mower by the shed to the same Jesus picture hanging over the couch.
They don’t buy anything new and only buy what they need and nothing else. We bow our heads as Paps says grace. I can’t remember the last time I prayed, reminding me of a country song.
In our house, Granny puts everything on the table in bowls, and we pass it around with each person taking a portion. Of course, she makes enough for Dane to have two pork chops, mashed potatoes, and Dane gets his own bowl of his favorite side dish, prepared country style—greased spinach with bacon.
“Young lady, are you ready for your competitions coming up?” Paps ask.
“I think so. I’ll be training with Jasper Cole for a while. He won the Olympics in the show jumping event, the last time around.”
“Do you have everything figured out with your classes? The Olympics is a snapshot in life; you can’t make money riding horses forever,” Granny asks.
She wants more for me than this small town. Sometimes, I think she lives vicariously through me, always wanting every detail of my classes or the rundown on who I’ve met or if I’ve been to a new restaurant. When I mentioned the Mediterranean restaurant, she had to know the flavors involved, and her eyes closed as if the food was in her mouth. I wish they would come to Lexington more often, but they only come up for one game a year of Dane’s and turn around and drive back without staying the night. I make a mental note to get them a hotel room this year and take them to different restaurants.
Dane cuts in because Granny is a realist, wanting me to complete my education. “Grans, she’s gotten it all taken care of like she always does. Lettie’s being a good girl.” He smirks, and his innuendo makes me flush. Quickly, I stuff my mouth, so she doesn’t notice this either. Is he trying to out us?
“If you say so. Excuse me,” she says, pushing back from the table, grabbing the orange Tupperware pitcher of sweet tea, and refilling our glasses. Without fanfare, Granny grabs a paper grocery bag that she’s stuffed with some used tissue paper from when we celebrated Mother’s Day.
