Page 27 of Strung Along

Me: Deal.

Banana: Pleasure doing business with you, Bo.

Me: Likewise, Banana.

My grandmother isa woman of many words. Oftentimes, far too many.

That’s especially true whenever we’re on a supply run. If my grandfather knows the entire ranching population, then my grandmother knows double that number. She’s kinder, more welcoming to newcomers, and loves to gossip. We can’t make it three steps into the grocery store or feed shop before she’scatching up with someone she claims she hasn’t seen in a month or two.

The woman raised me, though, so after a couple of decades of being forced to suffer through these long conversations, I’d say I’m used to it now.

That’s why I’m not surprised when we don’t even make it past the cart corral inside the grocery shop before she’s taking me by the hand and dragging me over to Mrs. Sullivan and her daughter. I’m already prepared to endure the conversation with a smile by the time Grandma grabs their attention.

“Marty! You’re so grown up!”

Marty jolts at the volume of my grandmother’s voice but smiles kindly at her a beat later. Her mom does the same and meets my grandmother halfway, kissing both her cheeks.

“It’s so great to see you, Eliza. You look happy and healthy,” Mrs. Sullivan greets my grandma.

“Same to you both. I feel like the last time I saw Marty, she was graduating high school with my grandson!” Grandma says.

I fight back an eye roll. She knows damn well she’s seen them both in the lasttenyears. This is most likely her trying to get me to take her friend’s daughter out on a date. Ever since I’ve gotten back, all she’s seemed to want me to do is date someone. I hate disappointing her, but I don’t have any plans on dating anytime soon.

Marty seems to sense my train of thought and smiles sympathetically. “I’ve spoken to Brody a couple of times since he’s been home. He’s a good friend.”

“I told the firefighters about your idea for the library fundraiser, and they’re interested, by the way. Darren said to text him the details,” I reply.

Marty is a beautiful woman, with strawberry blonde hair and two dimples that flash every time she smiles. But friends is all I’m interested in, and I think it’s the same for her. It’s hard todate as an adult in a town as small as Cherry Peak. We all grew up together, and more often than not, if someone was going to start dating, they would have done it long before now.

It’s the older generation that can’t seem to accept that. If they had it their way, we’d all have married a high school sweetheart, had six kids, and already bought matching headstones.

“Thank you! I’ll talk to him today and get it set up. The kids are going to love it,” Marty says.

“What fundraiser is this for again?” her mom asks, attention whirling to her daughter.

Marty nearly glows at the chance to explain her idea. “I was hoping the fire department could help me with a small carnival inside the library in the new year. There would be a toy drive, and the money from the carnival games would be used to help give the kids section of the library a bit of a makeover. It’s extremely outdated.”

“You’re right. It’s far too dark in there! Let me know what the Steeles can help with, and we’ll do it,” Grandma offers.

Marty nods, opening her mouth to reply, when there’s a crash from one of the aisles close by. A muffled female curse is followed by another crash, smaller and quieter this time. What sounds like cans rolling along the floor and metal clanking has my curiosity sparking, my feet carrying me in the direction of the sound.

My decent mood is snuffed out the moment I see the woman currently attempting to sweep a dozen cans of soup off the floor and into her arms.

“Really? This is really going to happen to me right now?” she mutters to herself, scowling at the tin cans.

I cross my arms and watch her lose her grip on the armful of soup for the second time. They hit the floor with a bang, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that they don’t bust open. She scrambles for them, and then I’m moving toward her.

When she notices me coming, she glances at the ceiling and mutters, “Fuck.” When her brown eyes meet mine again, they tighten at the corners. “Are you here to make fun of me?”

“I was going to help you, but I can leave.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“You look like you need it.”

Rage makes her nostrils flare. “You’re arrogant.”

“You seem to bring that quality out of me, sweetheart.”

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