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“You do too have Southern roots. You might not have been born on Oakley, but your dad was. Your grandmother was, and that counts.”
“And don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t this kind of a cliché dish?”
I mock gasp. “Blasphemy. Just sit tight. Let me feed you and show you why fried green tomatoes could never be a cliché.”
I slice through the tomato, working to assemble the perfect bite for Sadie. They’re served here over white cheddar grits with creamy tomato butter, country ham, and a sweet tomato chutney, and you really need a little taste of all of it at once.
“I haven’t had grits since the last time I was at Gran’sbeforeshe died. She was the only one who ever made them for me.”
“And I’m sure they were good. Gran knew how to make a good pot of grits.” I hold out my fork. “Trust me,” I say. “It’s the perfect bite.”
Sadie leans forward, closing her lips around the bite and making me forget what’s actually happening right now.
Are we in a restaurant? Is there food? AllIcan think about is her lips and how soon I can kiss her again.
“Oh my gosh,” Sadie says with a soft moan. “That’s incredible. I take back everything I said. You can totally sayI told you so.”
“I absolutely told you so.” I take my own bite, closing my eyes as the flavors hit my tongue. “My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid.”
“You haven’t told me much about your mom,” Sadie says. “How old were you when she died?”
I cut off another piece of tomato, using the time it takes to chew and swallow to remind myself that Iwantto share these things with Sadie. I never talk about my mom, so it doesn’t come easily. But I owe it to her to try. I can’t hope for vulnerability from Sadie without giving the same in return.
“You don’t have to talk about this,” Sadie says quickly. “Sorry if I’m being nosy.”
“I want you to be nosy,” I tell her. But it still takes me another piece of tomato and another few moments to gather my thoughts and my courage to be so open.
“I was sixteen when she died,” I say. “Well, almost sixteen. My birthday was two weeks after.”
“So young,” Sadie says. “I’m so sorry. That’s a tough age to have to lose a parent.”
“It was. Not that there’s ever a good age to lose someone you love.”
“True.” The smile she gives me is small, and I think of Genevieve.
I remember Sadie’s drawn, closed-off face at her funeral a year and a half ago. I hadn’t seen Sadie in years, and even then, when I knew I should be thinking of sadness and grief, I couldn’t help being drawn to her. Wishing we’d run into each other again under different circumstances.
I never would have dreamed we’d be here now.
“How old were you when your parents divorced?” I chuckle, then shake my head. “Man, this is hardly happy date conversation. Maybe we should go back to talking about food?”
Sadie touches my hand. “No—this is good. I mean, okay—it’s not typical first-date conversation. But then, what about any of this has been typical?”
Absolutelynothing. So, I guess we’re sticking with that.
“Maybe that’s just not our style,” she says, and I love the way she saysour.
I slide the last piece of tomato toward her and Sadie takes it without hesitation, something I immediately appreciate. Not just that she eats like a normal human, but that she isn’t insistingIeat it. There’s none of the forced, mannered politeness, or pretending like she’s never hungry for more than lettuce and lemon water.
“My parents split up when I was twelve,” Sadie says. “Which was just old enough to be full of rage instead of sadness.”
“I think I was angry about everything when I was twelve,” I say. “Puberty was brutal.”
Sadie smiles and points to the mass of blond waves that just barely reach her shoulders. “You should have seen this hair when I was twelve. It was out of control.”
“Ididsee your hair when you were twelve. I remember it. I remember all three of you.”
She blinks at me. “Oh my gosh. I keep forgetting. It’s weird I don’t have more memories of you.”
