Page 131 of Flaunt
Fucking tears. They fill my eyes, and I blink as furiously as I can to get them to reabsorb wherever they came from.
“That’s …” I sigh. “That’s so nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
I step to the side, and she comes inside, moving like the matriarch she is.
“Pippa also sent you some soup,” she says. “Can I stick this in your fridge?”
Lucky that was here when I got the keys. “Uh, sure.”
I stand in the doorway and watch her take over my space.I see where Banks gets it now. The thought makes me smile.
“This is a chilled peach soup with fresh goat cheese.” She holds a little package on top of the glass container before putting them in the fridge. “Pippa says she’s in a cold soup season and makes a new soup just about every day. I didn’t know there were that many soups out there.”
I grin.
She goes back to her bags and pulls out a small, soft-sided can cooler, two bottles of Fresca, and a sandwich, small bag of chips, and a to-go salad container.
“The drinks are cold,” she says. “I forgot to bring ice, so hopefully this will be fine.”
I don’t know what to say other than I should say something. “This is … wonderful. Unexpected. It’s more than fine.”
She finishes unloading her bags and then turns to me. “I’m going to get right to the point.”
Oh shit. I nod hesitantly.
“Banks told me what happened today,” she says, eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
She sighs. “Sabrina? Is that her name?”
I nod again.
“She better have been glad I wasn’t home.”
What? A slow smile splits my cheeks.
“Come. Sit,” she says, patting the counter. “You need to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hop on the counter as instructed, not sure where this is going. “I apologize for the spectacle today.”
She unwraps the sandwich. “What are you apologizing for? You weren’t the one acting like a lunatic.”
My heart swells.
“When I was in high school, I played softball. Second base. Not to sound too much like my children, but I was good,” she says.
I giggle.
She grins. “My grandfather used to come to my games, and every time he’d show up, there was a fifty-fifty chance he was drunk off his behind.” She digs around in the bag and pulls out plastic cutlery. “He would stand behind the batter’s box and just shout all kinds of madness. Not always bad things, but he’d go over the top, clapping and whistling and yelling—the whole bit. And I became known at school as the girl with the drunk grandpa.”
I take the sandwich she hands me.
“It was the worst. Kids are just mean, anyway,” she says, setting a drink beside me. “I was so embarrassed by him. It was awful.”
I take a deep breath. Suddenly, I see right where this is headed, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
