Page 14 of Beards and Broken Hearts

“Layton honey, I’m so glad you’re here,” Grandma says, walking toward me with open arms. I bend to embrace her, eclipsing her tiny frame with mine and squeezing her warmly.

“Family dinner night, as promised,” I say with a grunt.

Despite my nonchalance, I swear I see tears form in her eyes, but she doesn’t allow them to fall. The realization that my actions might be hurting her makes my gut feel like acid, and I shift from one foot to the other, clearing my throat.

She nods, stepping back and turning toward the kitchen. “Yes, it is, and I’m so happy to see you. Is Jenson joining us?”

“Not tonight. He said he has to pack. He’s buying a house and has to move out soon. Before his dog gets him evicted,” I tell her, wishing I had him here as a buffer, to be honest.

“Oh dear. Must be a big dog.”

“Yeah, he’s a brute, but still a puppy, just full of energy.”

“Well, you can bring him a plate when you leave.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, sitting at the table topped with all my favorites.

My grandma is an amazing cook and could have made anything. Still, tonight, I’m sitting in front of her famous lasagna, breadsticks, and a bowl of tossed salad with my favorite Italian dressing from Olive Garden. I can smell the apple pie on the counter beside her double oven.

Looking around, I see things that have remained the same since my grandfather lived here with her. The curtains are the same. The damn dish towel hanging on the hook by the sink with blue geese. These are things that bring back such fond childhood memories spent here with the two of them. Watching them dance to her favorite song. She slapping his hand when he would sneak a deviled egg off a tray she was making for a potluck.

“Layton, so glad you could make it.”

Then, my trip down memory lane is interrupted by him. Darrel steps into the kitchen, and I nod sharply, with no other response. It’s not the man’s fault, and deep down, I know that. I want my grandma to be happy, but I can’t help but miss my grandfather more when I see Darrel with my grandma. The teenage me wants to scream that it’s unfair, but it’s been a long time, and I know I need to get over it. Move on and be happy for them. But nobody said I had to do it with a smile.

“Smells amazing in here, Elenore,” he tells her with a kiss on her cheek that lights up her face. Her smile is wide, and her cheeks are pink.

“It’s her favorite. Hope she loves it. I don’t think I’ve ever made it for her before,” Grandma responds.

“You did wonderfully, honey. She’s going to love it,” he replies, and my brows rise.

“She, who? I thought you made my favorites, Grandma,” I say, half teasing, part of me already offended.

“Oh well, I didn’t know if you would really come. I’ve invited you before, and you haven’t.” Elenore Michaels is never a woman lost for words, but as she stands in front of me, she stammers, looking toward Darrel. There’s a look of genuine remorse on her face for saying it in front of me, and I can’t help but laugh. I can’t even be mad. She’s absolutely right. I’ve made excuses not to come to dinner every time she’s invited me, knowing Darrel would be here.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Grandma. I’ll do better. I promise,” I tell her honestly. Losing my grandpa, I don’t need to keep avoiding my sweet Grandmother.

A knock at the door catches our attention, and with a small smile, as if I said exactly what she wanted to hear, she walks away to answer it.

Wait. Suddenly, I remember who we were with when she invited Jenson and me.

“Hello, sweetheart. Thank you so much for coming. You didn’t have to bring anything, but oh my, this looks delicious.”

Then I hear Daphne thank her. A voice that holds a mirage of memories all on its own. There are some things I don’t want to think about while sitting here and eating with her. Spend any time at all with her. Remembering how sweet she was, how fun it was to be around her, and how she tasted. Fuck! No. I shouldn’t have come. Because remembering how great my ex is, reminds me of the shitty way I hurt her. Selfishly and cowardly, and as much as I want to apologize, no words will ever be good enough. So, what could I say? I tried the night I drove her home, but luckily, her sister stopped me.

Anger rises in my throat when I remember seeing her and that fuck face outside the bar. Just the thought of him having the audacity to try to force himself into her space makes me want to punch him all over again. Or worse, if I’m honest.

I take a deep breath to center myself just in time for the two ladies to walk into the room.

Daphne seems to do the same and gives me a small smile. We don’t greet each other with fake pleasantry, and I’m glad for it. I did some digging, and Daphne’s been in town for almost a year. I can’t believe we never ran into each other. As of late, though, she’s everywhere, and I know exactly who’s responsible. My meddling grandmother.

“Daphne made strawberry rhubarb pie, Layton. Isn’t that your favorite?”

It is actually, but I just smile and keep my mouth shut. Apple is my grandmother's staple, and she always makes it, and I’m happy to eat it, but strawberry rhubarb with vanilla ice cream is by far the better choice. Not that I’ll be eating any.

“Well, everything is ready, but we need wine. Would you two mind picking out a few bottles from the cellar?” Grandma says, looking between me and Daphne.

“A few?” I ask, wondering if she plans to get us all drunk.

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