Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

My throat squeezes shut as I look at her wrinkled skin. Her wedding ring still sparkles on her finger even though my grandfather has been dead for ten years.

Nana is my consistent, the woman who looked after me after my parents died. The one who makes me chicken noodle soup when I get a slight cough—even when she’s knows I’m faking just to get the soup. She’s not to blame for the bad parts of me, but the credit goes to her for most of the good parts.

The idea of something happening to her makes me want to be sick.

“Ready to talk?” she asks.

I shove a spoonful of scalloped potatoes in my mouth. “About what?”

“About whatever brought you here.”

“Don’t I come here to check on you all the time without wanting to talk?” I ask, still trying to shake off something being wrong with Nana.

“Yes. You’re a good boy and check on me all the time. But you do it differently most days.”

“You’re nuts.”

She tilts her head to the side. “No. I think I’m observant.”

I load my mouth with potatoes again so I don’t have to respond.

She starts a story about my parents. Just the mention of my mother and the taste of the home cooked dinner has me lifting the fork a little slower.

I miss this. A lot. More than I’d ever admit to her or my brothers or Blaire. It’s why I don’t miss Sunday dinners at Nana’s and why my ass is in a pew nearly every Sunday. As much of a heathen as I am, a part of me really likes the slower pace of family dinners. The way you can relax and catch up from the week. How someone cared about you enough to fix you dinner. How someone would miss you if you didn’t show up. How maybe, despite all the bullshit you do and have done, it can be okay somehow.

Nana’s face is animated, her hands waving through the air as she finishes her story. I wonder what will happen when she does pass away some day. My stomach roils. I drop my fork.

“Is it okay?” she asks, looking at my plate.

“It was really good.”

“But you didn’t clean your plate.”

“I, uh, I grabbed a sandwich a little while ago.”

She doesn’t believe me but doesn’t push it. “I talked to Blaire today. She seems to be doing good.”

“I think she got laid on her trip to Savannah.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t talk that way around me.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “Oh, come on, Nana. It’s not like you don’t know what happens.”

“Of course, I know,” she says, patting her silver hair wrapped in a bun high on her head. “It’s not like I was always this old.”

“I bet you were a maniac,” I tease.

“Well, I wasn’t a wallflower, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nana!”

Her cheeks flush as she rinses my plate and sticks it in the dishwasher. “Your poor grandpa didn’t stand a chance.”

“So you’re where we get it.”

“Get what?”

I look at her and try not to laugh as reality settles over her cute little face.

“Well, I guess it could be true …” She smiles sheepishly.

My laughter comes quick and loud as I hop off the stool. “Lord, I love you.” I pull her into a one-armed hug and kiss the top of her head. “Thanks for dinner.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and doesn’t let go. “I love you, Machlan. Even if you’re ornery.”

“I love you especially when you are.”

She smacks my stomach. Despite her playfulness, I sense something else on the cusp of spilling over. I do quick math and wonder if I can get out of here before she brings whatever it is up.

The answer is no.

“I’m worried about you, sweetheart,” she says.

“Why?”

“When was the last time you brought a young lady over here?”

I bite my lip. “Two thousand fifteen? Fourteen, maybe?”

She smacks me again. “I’m being serious.”

“Me too.” I dodge the next slap and step away. “I’m fine.”

“I know you are. But I want you to be great.”

“Fine. I’m great, Nana.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your brothers both have a woman in their lives, and Blaire might even have a man.”

“What makes you think I don’t have someone?”

“Because you’re at your grandmother’s way too often to be a man with a lady waiting.”

This is true, and I have a hard time disagreeing with her logic. I am here more than most mid-twenties men who are in good shape and make decent money. I also never bring women around. This is mostly because I don’t fuck around too much, but I heard she thought Lance was gay once and really don’t want to have to spend time making her believe I’m not.

“Maybe I like you better than her,” I offer with a shrug.

“Or maybe she doesn’t exist.”

“Are you saying I can’t get a woman, Nana? Wow. What’s with you and the hurtful comments tonight?”