Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)
She meanders around the space, lifting lids and getting things out of the refrigerator. She rattles on about some television show she watched that said a kitchen is dirtier than a bathroom, and I tune her out when she switches topics to her soap operas.
I don’t have time to listen to that crap. I’m living a soap opera of my own.
The corner of my lips turn up as I think of Hadley. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl. It was easier when she was in Vigo and Cross withheld information. I could rationalize that, tell myself she was happy and to just let her be. But now, with her right under my nose, I can’t pretend she’s not there. I can’t pretend I don’t want to be near her. I don’t want to.
My breath comes out in a long, slow drawl. It’s enough to have Nana turning around with a concerned look.
“A ham on a weeknight?” I ask before she can dictate the direction of this conversation. “Seems weird. You got a boyfriend or something?”
“Not that it would be any of your business, but no. I don’t.” She furrows her brow as she turns back to the stove and shuts off a timer. “Lance called. He and Mariah are coming for dinner.”
“And I wasn’t invited? I’m hurt.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re always invited, honey.”
“I kinda don’t remember the phone call saying, ‘Hey, Machlan. We’re having dinner tonight.’”
She sets her spoon on a little tray on the counter. “I think Lance is up to something.”
“Lance is always up to something.”
“No, I mean a serious something. Do you know anything about this?”
I balk. “Nana, are you asking me to gossip about my brother?”
“Gossip? No.”
“Yeah. You are.” I shake my head as if I’m utterly amazed at this revelation. “Wasn’t the pastor just preaching about gossiping last week?”
Her mouth hangs open.
“And about my brother, no less,” I add. “I’m disappointed in you.”
She recovers, grabbing a dish towel and throwing it at me. “You’re so full of it.”
“Full of what?” I goad, ducking as the yellow-and-white checkered rag goes over my head.
“Nothing good.” She swats my shoulder as she walks by to pick up the errant towel. “At least you were listening in church, though. That’s a good sign.”
“I always listen. Sometimes to the pastor too.”
I watch as she moseys back to the oven. She opens it, and the entire room is filled with the sweet, smoky scents of baked ham and pineapple.
“You really don’t know what Lance wants?” she asks, resting the baking dish on a towel. “I have no idea what to expect from that boy.”
“I really don’t know. You know I’d tell you. I mean, you feed me.”
She laughs, shaking her head. She gets out a plate and busies herself at the stove. I slide my finger along the edge of a cake on the island and plop the icing in my mouth while she isn’t looking.
“You staying for dinner?” Nana asks.
“I wasn’t invited.”
“I won’t ask again.”
“Oh, you will too.”
“I just hate the thought of you going home alone and eating by yourself.”
“Which is why you totally called me tonight, right?”
She fires a warning look over her shoulder. “Keep it up and no cheeseball for you on Sunday.”
I make a face. “Wow. Going right for the jugular, huh?”
Nana busies herself again, going off on a tangent about how nice her yard looks. Walker apparently mowed it yesterday, and you’d think he shit gold.
Through the window above the sink, I see the evening sky. It’s almost like a painting. I can’t see a sky like that and not think of Hadley.
Evenings are her favorite time of day. I remember when she wanted to be a painter her sophomore year of high school. I bought her all these fancy paints and an easel for Christmas. She spent hours of her life outside, watching the sun go down and trying to capture it on a canvas.
“If you won’t stay for dinner,” Nana says, setting a plate down in front of me, “you can at least eat before you go.”
“Lance is gonna be pissed I got a plate before him.” I smile as broadly as I can. “That really makes me happy, Nana.”
“You and that mouth.”
“Just think,” I say, picking up the fork beside the plate. “I kissed you with this mouth.”
She makes a face but laughs the entire time. As I take a bite of ham, she meanders around the island and hoists herself on a stool beside me. She groans as she gets situated, and a stab of fear races down my spine.
“You okay?” I ask, my fork suspended in midair.
“Oh, I’m fine. My back is just a little sore.”
“Want me to take you to see Doc Burns tomorrow?”
She places a hand on my arm. It’s not a swat and isn’t accompanied with a laugh or a joke about getting old. Instead, it feels a lot like a plea not to talk about it.