CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The early evening sun is out in force today, but it’s still nowhere near as warm as the shade in Arizona. The air around me may be bright, happy, and warm, but inside there’s a storm brewing. Monday morning at the center is always a bit crazy, especially in the summer.
There’s normally a mound of paperwork for me to look over. Today is no different. Incident reports from the weekend, new volunteer applications, and every person who walks by my door has to stop at it and tell me what they did over the weekend. I cater to them because listening to what they consider a boring weekend gives me insights into what’s going on at home and where they might need more help. It’s also better than reading the plea agreements when one of them gets in trouble.
I love working at the center, but I’m normally ready to come home and sit in silence at the end of the day. That’s not so much the case today when I know what awaits me at home.
Grant Moore III.
I haven’t accepted the fact he now lives with us. And I most certainly haven’t forgiven Drew for doing it behind my back. I put the responsibility of finding someone on his shoulders, but he took my feelings out of the equation and sided with the male species rather than his best friend. And that stings. Drew has never once made me feel second best.
The smell of noodles, sauce, and cheese assaults me before I get the front door fully closed. It’s heavenly. My stomach rumbles reminding me of my lackluster cracker lunch today. I can’t wait to eat whatever carb loaded dish Drew has decided to make as step one in his apology. He definitely knows the way to my heart.
“Lucy, I’m home,” I yell into the quiet house forgetting for a moment he’s still on my shit list.
“Does that make you Ethel?” the swindler himself, Grant, asks as he walks out of the kitchen. There’s a huge smile stretched across his face but it falls quickly as he sees my scowl.
“What are you doing here?”
Grant cocks his head to the side and ponders his answer for a few seconds that stretch to eternity. “I live here, remember?”
If only I could spend a few seconds appraising him. The boy never looks better than when he’s wearing jeans like he is now, but I refuse to let my eyes wander from his face. I can’t help the fact I notice his loose fitted dark wash jeans make him look totally at ease in my space.
“I’m not a moron, Grant. I just try to forget the fact I share space with you now.”
“Clare,” he sighs like I’m somehow a problem in this situation.
I pop a hip out giving him my best unaffected and annoyed pose. “Grant.”
“I made you dinner.”
“I don’t want to eat your food.” My stomach chooses that second to rumble, proving me a liar.
“Did you not want to eat the lunch I packed you either?”
“Obviously not.” I walk to the kitchen, my eyes falling on the counter where earlier this morning he’d left me a brown sack with my name printed on it. I, of course, stuck up my nose and walked out. I don’t need Grant to provide me food. I had a stack of crackers in my desk. “What was it? Caviar?”
I don’t know what rich people eat for lunch, but I’m sure it was ridiculous.
“A lunchable.”
My head snaps in his direction. How does he know what a lunchable is? I choose to ignore that information for a moment because the smells circulating around me demand I hunt them out.
There are no dishes of food on the counters. The smell is stronger and radiates from the oven. I pull my hand back when it reaches out to open the door.
I do not care what’s in there.
“I’m being nice. You don’t normally eat lunch and it’s an important meal.”
“I don’t want you to be nice.” Doesn’t he understand we come from different worlds? We’re not meant to intermingle. I don’t understand his lifestyle. One where you justify ruining families while you sit on your boat being served champagne. He wants me to eat lunch like lives aren’t being ruined.
Grant opens the oven door. With two bright pink oven mitts — Drew and I picked them up for free last year during a breast cancer awareness event — he pulls a large casserole dish out and sits it on top of the stove. Melted cheese bubbles up, a layer of sauce and a few noodles’ edges sticking out. The edges are dark brown, burnt the way I like it. How did he know lasagna is one of my favorite meals?
Damn him.
If Drew told Grant food is the way to win me over he’s in serious trouble. It takes all the strength in me but I peel my eyes away from the lasagna and with firm but dragging steps walk to the fridge.
“I made plenty for everyone,” Grant says with a clatter of a metal pan as I look in his direction again. A large light brown loaf of garlic bread sits next to the lasagna.
Double damn him.
I don’t know how yet, but somehow this is Drew’s fault. I feel it.
I turn back to the fridge pretending I’m not affected by the garlicky goodness he’s now bribing me with and rip open the freezer door. It’s mostly empty. A few trays of ice cubes and two frozen pizzas are the only items inside even though Drew promised me I’d have ice cream for the rest of my life. With a sigh I close the top door and open the fridge.
These contents aren’t much more appealing. Drew and I meshed our shelf space together when we first moved in, but the most appealing thing on mine is a bottle of ketchup.
“You can’t ignore me forever, Clare.”
“Yes I can.” I snatch a small bag of open carrots from the top shelf and slam the fridge door.
“We had a connection,” Grant calls as I wander out of the kitchen.
I stop before taking the first step upstairs. “The key word is had. You ruined it with your actions.”
With heavy feet I force myself to walk the stairs at a normal pace even though I want to run away from him as fast as possible. If Grant thinks he’ll win me over with Italian food, he has another think coming. I shove the first carrot in my mouth. It’s dry and crunchier than it should be, but there’s no way I’m leaving my bedroom tonight.
Sequestered in my room with little to do, I get bored quickly. I lie back on my bed, fluff the pillow and stare at the ceiling wondering exactly how early is too early to go to bed. I could use a good night’s sleep.
Some undisclosed amount time of passes this way until a knock on my door jars me from my thoughts.
“Go away!” I yell at the door, not interested in what Grant has to say.
There’s another knock and the door swings opens. “It’s me,” Drew says letting himself into the room.
“I don’t want to see you either.”
He sets a plate piled high with pasta and garlic bread on my desk. The smell quickly takes over my room. My stomach rumbles. I finished off the bag of carrots while daydreaming but they weren’t enough.
“Where’s my ice cream?” I ask not propping my head up to look at the food. If this is his idea of making me give in, he’s crazy.
He laughs. “Long day at work. I didn’t have time to make it to the store.” I scowl at him until he continues. “But I promise I’ll bring a pint home tomorrow.”
“And what, you decided to eat in front of me as a new form of torture?”
“No. I remember sometimes you’re so stubborn you don’t realize when you’re being ridiculous so I brought you this plate of food.”
“I don’t want it.” I adjust the covers around me and make sure not to look at the plate.
“There goes that stubborn thing I mentioned.”
His comment ticks me off and I sit up faster than a NASCAR takeoff. “How can you eat his food?”
Drew sticks a fork in the middle of the large piece of lasagna. “He made a meal for us to extend an olive branch.”
I roll my eyes at him so hard they hurt. “He can shove his olive branch where the sun doesn’t shine.”
Drew flinches. “That sounds more painful than necessary.”
I shrug unconcerned.
“Do you need me to tell you that you’re being a brat or are you aware?” Drew asks, holding the plate out in my direction.
I crinkle up my entire face. I’ll starve before I eat anything Grant cooks.
“You’re better than this, Clare. Is it because you’re hangry?”
I can’t believe he suggested the reason I’m upset is because I’m hungry. I spent most my childhood hungry, and he knows that. “I can’t believe you don’t think this is a big deal.”
“It’s lasagna.”
“It’s our morals baked in a noodle dish.”
“Clare,” he sighs with a big dramatic gesture, “everyone is okay if you eat the lasagna. None of the kids will hold it against you.”
When I don’t make a move toward the plate Drew loses his cool and stands up. “Eat it. I’ll tell him I tried to give it to you, but you threw it in the trash.”
He stares at me not moving a muscle while waiting to see if I’ll take the bait.
Damn him it works.
“Fine. Give me the food.” I’m so very hungry.
Using the fork, I tear into the lasagna and shove the first bite in my mouth. A cornucopia of flavors bursts over my tongue. It’s possibly the best lasagna I’ve tasted in my entire life. The cheese has melted to a perfect consistency and the noodles are tender yet not overdone. I moan when the fork makes contact with the second bite and my stomach begs for more.
“Good. Stuff your face and then I can talk to you without you talking back.”
I stop chewing, but my mouth is loaded full of lasagna. Even though I give Drew the side-eye, I continue eating. I’ve started now. I can’t let it go to waste.
He gets right to the point. “Do you think you’re angry at Grant because you’re scared?”
“What? No,” I shout the words around the bite of food I’m still chewing and force down the swallow. “What would I be scared of?”
Drew motions to try the garlic bread. “Do you need a list?”
“A list! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I bite off a hunk of bread from one of the two pieces on the plate.
“Well there’s your abandonment issues.”
“I do not have abandonment issues,” I sputter and swallow.
Drew rolls his eyes. “I’m not done. There’s also your issues with men and abandonment. That’s separate over the regular abandonment issues. Your problem with rich people.” He holds up a third finger.
“Stop saying abandonment and I don’t have a problem with rich people.” I defend myself and then shove in another bite of lasagna. He’s wrong about the rich people part. I like Aspen and the other RDA girls, and they’re the richest people I’ve met.
“No, you’re fine with rich people as long as they’re donating back to your cause or self-hating in one way or another. Otherwise you don’t give them the time of day.”
His words sting, but largely because some of them are true. At least in part.
“What Grant did was dirty and horrible and wrong.” I put down the plate no longer interested in the food.
Drew takes a place beside me on my bed, the mattress sinking until I grab the plate of lasagna so it doesn’t spill. “You and I both know sometimes life sucks. It’s an unfair menstrual bitch, but we need the rent money. Grant might be many things, but we know he’s not a serial killer. He’s clean, agreed to the rules, and he paid in advance. Anyone else and we’d be sacrificing a goat to get him.”
“That advance rent money is profit from laying off one hundred of our neighbors.”
Drew shrugs. “So he’s an asshole. You can’t save every single person, Clare. You’ll go crazy trying. Maybe if you work with him, get him to volunteer more, you can help him make better choices next time.”
“I’m not getting back together with Grant.” Bread flakes on my comforter when I take another bite of garlic bread.
“Hell no. Don’t get back with him. You two are a crazy pair. You need someone who can keep you in line.”
My face scrunches up as I stop chewing to give him a nasty look.
“I’m saying sew up the vagina. Don’t let him back into your happy place.”
“Ewwwww. Okay, stop. Just stop.” I never ever want to hear the word vagina come from his mouth again.
Drew laughs and pushes me on the shoulder standing from my bed. “Don’t you feel better now that you’ve eaten carbs?”
“Whatever.” I refuse to admit any fault in this situation. “Ice cream for dessert would help even more.”
Grabbing my now empty plate Drew stops by the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”