Page 44 of Doctorshipped
It’s definitely got at least an entire log of Velveeta in it, probably a can of whatever cream soup Memaw had on hand, and possibly noodles or frozen potatoes as the base. Beyond that, she always adds her idea of “something special.” It could be pimentos or chopped green olives. It might be crushed saltines or corn flakes. Often it’s a menagerie of ingredients the Good Lord himself wouldn’t touch. Whatever it is, you don’t want to risk eating even a small scoop of it.
“Memaw made it,” I explain to Grant. “The only thing you want to eat of hers are her cupcakes. They’re to die for. The rest of her food is to die for in a more literal sense of the phrase.”
Grant chuckles lightly and then coughs as if to cover his amusement. Or, maybe he just coughed and I’m imagining the chuckle.
“Thanks for the tip,” he says.
“Anytime.” I pluck a chicken leg off the pile of fried chicken the Whites brought and put a scoop of three-bean salad next to it. Grant moves to my side and starts to serve himself.
“Where’s Fiona?” I ask Grant, feeling the need to fill the space between us with words.
The quiet we share feels too comfortable, which makes me squirmy. It shouldn’t feel like I’ve known him half my life. He’s annoying on a good day. And I can’t figure out this protective urge I feel for him. Why do I feel like it’s my mission to help him fit into our town despite his cantankerous self? Is it my attempt at some sort of drool penance?
“Fiona’s already made some friends. She’s run off with Trevor’s niece and nephew and a few other children. They’re in the goat pen, I think.” Grant pauses and scrunches up his face. “She’ll have to shower when we get home.”
I giggle. He’s so ridiculous.
“Didn’t she ever get dirty in St. Louis?”
Grant’s eyebrows draw in. He plops the world’s smallest serving of potato salad onto his plate and moves along behind me without dignifying my question with an answer.
When I look up, I’m greeted with eyes aimed in our direction. A few townspeople glance between me and Grant, probably drawing inaccurate conclusions which they’ll pass off as fact tomorrow at the salon and coffee shop. A lie can make its way around town before the truth has its laces tied up.
“You seem to be attracting attention,” I tease him.
“Hmph.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be old news in a few weeks.”
“I’ll be counting the days.”
“That’s one way to pass the time.”
“How do you pass your time?”
Is he serious? He wants to know how I pass my time?
“Um. Well, I …” I almost say the wordcobble, but I swallow it. Enough harping on that. He may not like my life, but as Shannon said, I do. And he doesn’t get to say what I do or don’t do for a living. He’s no one to me. Why does his opinion matter?
“I write, mostly. Either I’m drafting an article I’ve been commissioned to write, or I’m working on my books. Several days a week I meet my quota of cookie fortunes. And I bake and read. Sometimes my friends and I get together and hang out. Mostly I cook for Shannon and myself, and then we have dinner together once she’s home for work. But, since she’s been dating Duke, we only eat together a few nights a week.”
I feel like the most boring person in the world after describing my day-to-day life to Grant.
Grant studies me. My eyes meet his, and he doesn’t turn away. Neither do I. He’s not smiling, but he’s not grimacing either. An understanding passes between us—maybe because we’ve both eaten our fair share of dinners alone, only he has Fiona, and the time is coming quickly when I’ll have no one. Which is what I want. It’s the life I’m choosing. And I’m glad. Really. I’m very glad. I love having my freedom, and my friends, and the assurance that no one owns my heart but me.
I set a big slice of watermelon on my plate.
“So you’re alone more now that Shannon’s with Duke?”
“I am. But, it’s okay.”
I’m not really lonely. At least I don’t think I am.
“Hmmm.” Grant hums.
He doesn’t say anything else. We get to the end of the food tables and I look around for my friends so I can join them.
“Do you want to sit with us?” I turn and ask Grant in the spirit of being polite and neighborly.
