Page 37 of The Weight of Your Wishes

I know people in their twenties are notoriously horny, but this is far too much.

We finish up about half an hour later, and dark gray clouds are already rolling in, veiling us in gloomy shadows. The wind’s starting to pick up, too. It rustles through the trees, making them sway this way and that. It makes me feel like we should be rushing home right this minute, but Grant doesn’t seem to think it’s an issue as he strolls into the house through Patty’s front door.

She’s sitting at a round table off to the side of her kitchen scratching a lottery ticket with a nickel. “Damn it,” she huffs, tossing the coin down. “Another loser. I could’ve sworn this roll of tickets was ready to spit out a big winner.”

“Maybe the next one,” Grant supplies, a small smile on his face.

She goes into the kitchen and puts on some oven mitts before grabbing a baking dish from the oven. It smells delicious in here, like melty cheese and potatoes. Grant and I plop down on the wobbly wooden chairs at her table.

It’s very… yellow in here. The drapes on all the windows are covered in a yellow floral pattern that’s quite similar to the cushions of her couch. The shag carpet in the living room is also yellow. It’s as if she hasn’t changed one thing since the seventies, and I find myself nodding in approval.

She carries over some plates piled high with what looks like shepherd's pie and goes back for a glass pitcher of sweet tea and some glasses. “Go ahead! Don’t wait on account of me. I don’t have much of an appetite these days anyway.”

So, we dutifully begin shoveling the piping hot food into our mouths. “This is really good. Thank you,” I manage to say between bites.

She goes to open the window by the table, but stops, placing her hands on her hips. “Shit. Forgot about the shutters already.” She opens the front door and moves a large, ceramic flowerpot in front of it to keep it from blowing shut. Then, she drags a chair over to the door and lights a cigarette. “Hopefully, these damn pine trees don’t snap in half over my roof.”

Grant’s eyes bulge comically, and I take a big gulp of tea to hide my smile. It’s perfect, too—tooth rotting sweet.

“That’s not gonna happen. These winds won’t be bad enough, I don’t think. And your trees look pretty good and healthy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, Grant.”

I snort this time, unable to conceal it. But then her keen eyes land on me, and I stiffen.

“You been enjoying it out here in the swamp?”

I swallow the last bite of food and find a yellow flower painted in the center of the porcelain plate. “Yeah, it’s great. Can’t stand these mosquitoes though,” I say easily.

She nods her head. “Have you been enjoying having some company around?” she asks Grant, and now, it’s his turn to stiffen.

“I’ve always liked Hendrix’s company. Can’t say the same for everyone else’s though,” he says gruffly. I can’t help the small smile that curves my lips or the warmth that swirls in my stomach.

She hums and exhales another cloud of smoke out the door. There’s a certain buzz of tension in the room, and it’s making my skin crawl. I push up from the chair and take our plates to the sink, washing them quickly. Hopefully, Grant will notice how antsy I’m getting, so he can excuse us.

When I turn around, he’s standing in front of Patty with his hands planted on his hips. “Hendrix, why don’t you go get the truck started? I need to talk to Patty about something real quick.”

I narrow my eyes at him but grab the proffered keys, feeling like a child who’s been asked to leave so the adults can talk.

Propping myself against the truck, I take out my own pack of smokes and light one up. Might as well enjoy the damp, earthy smell that the wind is kicking around while I’m being excluded from what’s probably a very important conversation.

She’s probably interrogating him about whatever she thinks she heard us discussing in her backyard, and by the time she’s through with him, he’ll probably lock himself in his room for the duration of the storm.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

GRANT

“Go ahead and let it out. I know there’s something going on between the two of you,” Patty says.

It occurs to me that maybe I should try to lie about this rather than tell her everything she asks like I always have. She just reminds me of my own mother so much, and it’s hard to resist that draw. Of course, Patty’s far more independent than I ever remember my mother being. I’ve never seen Patty take shit from anyone—let alone a man.

I scratch at my beard, looking out towards the truck. Hendrix is there smoking a cigarette, and I can feel his anxious eyes from here.

“It’s nothing. The boy has some kind of crush on me—always has apparently. He’s just young, you know? It’ll go away.”

“You’re young, too,” she scoffs, taking a drag from a new cigarette. She’s always been a chain smoker. “And what about you? You love him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

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