Page 29 of Legally Ours

Me: you just wait. I'll blow your socks off. 7 okay?

It took a few more minutes with those infuriating dots, but eventually his response came.

Brandon: See you tonight, Red.

The familiar nickname turned my smirk into a full-on grin. He hadn't called me "Red" once since I'd woken up in the hospital. It was his endearment for me, one that now meant so much more than the color of my hair. In this moment, it was progress.

Except now I needed to figure out how to cook something that would make him call me that again.

~

"I can do it! Stop hovering!"

The rest of the afternoon had turned into a battle of the wills between the two stubborn Crosby women while Jane got day drunk on a bottle of wine, presumably to prepare for her impending breakup. After recovering from her shock at my request that she show me how to make Brandon's favorite meal, eggplant Parmesan, Bubbe had jumped into the fray with the authority of a drill sergeant. Jane wasn't much help, basically egging both of us on throughout the afternoon.

"You're doing it wrong, bubbela. Let me, let me."

Bubbe elbowed her way in front of me at the kitchen island. For such a small person, she was surprisingly strong. She tried to snatch the round piece of eggplant, dripping with egg wash, out of my hand. I, however, held it high enough that she couldn't reach it.

"Oh, snap!" crowed Jane as she poured herself a third glass of wine.

"Skylar!" Bubbe cried with her hands on her hips. "Is this any way to treat your grandmother?"

I just stuck my tongue out at her. This wasn't the first time today she'd played the guilting grandma card. I stepped out of her reach instead of handing it to her. Bubbe continued to follow, and I hobbled around the kitchen, holding a dripping piece of eggplant over a paper towel while Jane giggled into her wine glass.

"This is better than Real Housewives," she commented as she watched the chase. "Seriously. You guys could be the next Kardashians. Irish-Jew edition."

Bubbe huffed, then finally gave up. "That's too much egg, Skylar. If you do it like that, it's going to be mushy. You'll be serving Brandon slugs."

"Slugs!" I cried out with faux horror. "Slugs, I tell you!"

Bubbe just huffed, although I could see her fighting not to smile. "Bubbela, really, why don't you just let me make it? I'll have it breaded and fried in a half an hour, and then all you have to do is put it in the oven before he gets here. Easy." She snapped her fingers.

But I shook my head and returned to the shallow bowls of flour and bread crumbs.

"No," I said. "I have to do this myself. It's important."

Bubbe threw her hands up in the air and clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Oy, it's your funeral, girl."

She pulled off her apron and surveyed it critically before hanging it up on the hook. I never understood why Bubbe wore aprons to begin with––she never got a thing on them.

"Well, I'm going to leave you to it, since you refuse my help. I don't stay where I'm not wanted," she said after washing her hands in the sink.

"Come on, Bubbe, don't be like that," I said as I dipped the eggplant back into the egg a few times, and then set it into the flour. I held up my goop-covered fingers and wiggled them at her. "You know I love you. Come on, stay. Help the crippled girl make her eggplant slugs."

My grandmother cracked a smile, letting me know she wasn't really that angry.

"No, no, it's fine. You've got Jane to help you, and you know what to do. Just don't overcook them. They need to be crispy." She picked her keys off the counter and patted me fondly on the cheek. "You can tell me how it went in the morning. Call me when you're up. I don't want to disturb anything."

And with a mischievously raised brow that had Jane and I giggling all over again, Bubbe left us to our own devices.

~

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