The Best Friend Zone

Hell, she’d probably heard a little fear in mine, too.

“I, uh, better get Owl a drink of water. It’s hot out here.” She folds her hands in front of her.

The glance she throws me behind those long lashes tells me the prick from the Neuman place ain’t the only thing on her mind. I can also sense this isn’t the place or time to gab about us—for lack of a better two-letter word with infinite awkwardness.

So I manage a smile. “What time will the infamous eggplant parm be served tonight?”

“You don’t have to eat supper with us.” She shakes her head.

“Wrong, Peach. If I don’t, Granny Coffey will hunt me down like a rabid dog.”

The grimace she makes is not only cute, it tells me she knows I’m totally right.

“Six o’clock. Does that work?” she asks.

“Sure. I’ll be back with an appetite.”

“Thanks, and thanks again for…” She shrugs, meeting my eyes. “For everything.”

“It’s what I do.”

With a parting wink, I walk around my truck and get in, lingering till she’s inside before starting the engine and backing out.

Bearing gifts, I knock on Granny’s door a few hours later.

As usual, it’s Granny herself who answers the door.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she says, nodding at my full hands. “Time to face the music, punk.”

“Eggplant has a theme song? News to me,” I say with a grin.

Granny isn’t the least bit amused at my shitty joke till I hand her the wine bottle. A large one with a California label.

Her eyes light up.

“That’s for the trouble I’ve caused. Should help the medicine go down easier,” I say, then hold up the purple flowers in my other hand. “These are for the cook, something to match the stuff she’s preparing.” Finally, I pull out the big rawhide bone tucked under my arm. “And this is for your boy on four legs.”

Granny laughs.

“My, my, a busy man out to steal the hearts of the entire household.” Granny gives me a wink. “I like it.” Stepping aside, she waves me inside. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.”

As she shuts the door, she whispers, “Just so you know, I have ham sandwiches hidden in the garage fridge in case you need a real dinner.”

I laugh, but also admit, “It smells good, at least.”

“Smells can be terribly deceiving,” she snaps.

“I think you’ve got eggplant phobia, Granny.”

“And?” She shrugs, hoisting her nose in the air. “There are far worse afflictions.”

“Maybe so,” I say, swallowing another chuckle.

“Beer or wine?” she asks, leading me into the kitchen.

I go for the beer and take a seat at the table as directed after giving Tory her flowers and Owl his bone. They both appear to like their gifts.

Within a few minutes, the food materializes on the table, and it all looks delicious.

I don’t care what the old lady thinks.

Besides the heaping pan of steaming eggplant parm, there’s a garden salad prepped from a real garden, a diced fruit mix, cottage cheese, and garlic bread slathered with melted cheese.

What can I say? I’ve never been an overly picky eater—never had much choice—especially while spending summers here with Gramps. The Army didn’t offer much variety, and neither did the years I spent working for the FBI.

My meals were usually grab-and-go or straight out of a can.

I start with a forkful of the eggplant. Granny and Tory’s eyes are both glued to me in breathless expectation.

Shoveling it in, I give it a good chew, letting the flavor wash over me.

“Good stuff,” I say. “Seriously good.”

No lie.

With harsh skepticism in her eyes, Granny sneers at her fork. Then, after a heavy second, she decides to bite the bullet—or eat it in this case.

I share a subtle grin with Tory across the table as we both watch the old woman gingerly trying to make sense of the dreaded plant in her mouth.

A moment later, Granny’s eyes light up.

“Well…well, well, well. This isn’t the slop I expected.” She takes another bite, this time a bigger one. “Not bad at all.”

Tory grins, but doesn’t say I told you so, like most people would.

She’s too good an all-around person, and once again, I’m torn up about what I have to do.

Convince her to go home.

My sources are still looking into Bat and his likely parole date. The fact that his records are all sealed is too strange. I’m counting down the hours till James gets back to me.

Sealed records don’t happen with thugs like him.

Not unless he’s made some kind of deal.

A sick, tortured part of me wonders if he’s already out. Already here.

I think back to the car chase earlier. So tall, it’s scary.

That’s how Tory described the man she encountered. An unmistakable Pickett family trait, even if I have a hard time believing he’d be out and about, doing the dirty work himself.

But my gut tells me if it wasn’t Bat, it could’ve been somebody else from the Pickett clan. A cousin or something.