Out in the End Zone (Out in College 2)

“It’s nice to meet you.” I returned her megawatt grin and followed her through what could only be described as a time warp.

Plastic runners protected gold carpet in the formal living room. The furniture had an old but well-preserved look as though it had rarely been used. Family photographs covered the walls. She moved slowly enough that I was able to tell most of the pictures were of a younger Maryanne with two boys, whom I assumed were her sons. Once we moved into the adjoining family room, the decor changed to something a bit more modern. A comfy looking sectional and recliner were positioned in front of a large flat-screen television opposite the open family-style kitchen.

And every inch of wall space here was dedicated to Mitch. Baby, toddler, grade school, high school, and college. I moved closer to examine a particularly cute studio pic of a towheaded, blue-eyed Mitch holding a raggedy-looking stuffed rabbit by the ears. Maryanne stepped beside me and pointed at the glass.

“My Mitchell was four years old here. I’ve never seen a more beautiful child in my life. And I’m not just saying that because he’s my grandson. Look at that face. Gorgeous, isn’t he?” She turned to me with a radiant grin and winked. “Let’s get you that cookie.”

She pointed at a round dining table situated between the living and kitchen areas and instructed me to sit while she rustled up a few goodies. She reappeared a minute later with a plate and a stack of napkins.

“Thanks,” I said as I reached for a cookie.

“Enjoy. I put water in the kettle for tea for you boys too. Green tea. No caffeine to mess with your slumber. Unless you want that. You can choose. I have plain ol’ Lipton’s too. Or coffee. Would you prefer coffee?”

“No, thank you. Wow. These are delicious.”

“This is an old family recipe. My grandmother made these for me many moons ago,” she replied with a laugh. “She lived three blocks away from this very house—if you can believe that.”

“Oh. That’s cool. So you’re from Long Beach originally?” I asked politely.

“Yes. I’ve lived here almost all of my life. I raised my own family in this house. It didn’t always look like this. The kitchen wasn’t as fancy, and a few rooms were added here and there. But I’ve been here for forty-odd years. Let me tell you…time flies!” she chuckled.

I smiled and nodded in agreement. “Is Mitch your only grandson?”

“Yes.” Her eyes took on a faraway look as though she was bracing herself against something painful. “I had two sons. Calvin died far too young, and the other is Wyatt, Mitchell’s father. I don’t see him often. He’s a busy man. An important chef in Hollywood. Mitchell looked a bit like his dad when he was a child, but now I think he resembles his mother’s side of the family. She’s a cracker for sure.”

“A cracker?”

“Oh, yes.” Maryanne rolled her eyes and huffed. “I suppose we’re all some kind of a cracker, aren’t we? Some people are Ritz crackers or plain ol’ Saltines, and others like to think of themselves as one of those artisan brands that you can only buy in specialty stores.”

I grinned. “And what are you?”

She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’m not a cracker at all. I’m a cookie. A raspberry thumbprint cookie, I reckon. Depending on the weather and how they’re stored, these cookies can be soft or hard on the outside, but they’re always sweet in the center. Mitchell is the same way. Don’t let that boy fool you, dear. He’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet and very sensitive. When Mitchell was three years old he—”

“Oh. My. God.” Mitch entered through the kitchen and cast a wide-eyed look between us before zeroing in on his grandmother. “You fed him cookies?”

“Well, of course. We’re just getting to know each other. I like your new boyfriend. He’s a nice young man—and so handsome too,” she gushed, patting my hand affectionately before gazing up at Mitch. “How was your day, dear?”

“I—it was fine. But it just got weird,” he groused. “Grams, Evan and I are gonna head upstairs now.”

“All right, then take your tea with you. And the cookies,” she insisted.

She was up and out of her seat before either of us could argue. Mitch flopped into the chair she vacated and gave me a lopsided smile. “This is what happens when you’re early.”

“I don’t mind. I like her. She fed me cookies and told me I’m handsome,” I said.

Mitch’s smile grew. “She’s pretty awesome. But she talks a lot. I hoped to avoid a prolonged family history lesson. Nothing scares guys away faster than your grandmother whipping out your naked baby photos one minute and pledging her support for gay marriage the next. Whatever. You aren’t likely to fall in love with me, so I guess it doesn’t matter. But if you don’t mind, it’s easier if she thinks we really are boyfriends. She’s a serious romantic and it would take a lot of time to explain why—”