If Tori could see me right now, she’d hand me a piece of gum and tell me that my teeth will be nubs by the time I’m 40.
I’m so irritable today I’d probably throw one of Tori’s many stress balls at her head. Or five or six of them.
Kylie Martin: Sorry, I’m only willing to do it in person. If it’s not tonight or by tomorrow evening, it will be too late to do anything.
She’s giving me an ultimatum. She’s using a limited timeframe to coerce me into going out to dinner with her, and I don’t like it one bit. Ever since my sophomore year at college, I’ve tried hard to avoid people who do that to me because it’s too reminiscent of the boy I dated all through high school who wanted to control everything I did.
Preston had had different demands for something or another every other day, and each one was something he’d change his mind about as soon as I followed through. By the time he ended things with me he swore I was co-dependent. Looking back at the situation now, I was.
I still am.
I focus on the screen again, attempting to ignore the bevy of emotions that thinking about Preston always seems to bring about. I don’t love him. Tori says I probably never did and just went out with him because of my parental issues. Still, there’s a bitter ping in the center of my chest.
Swallowing back memories and exasperation and the sense of defeat, I send Kylie a reply: I don’t like being bullied any more than I enjoy being given a couple hours to decide something.
Kylie fires back a response seconds later. It’s just dinner—it’s not like I’m asking you to get pregnant with my blue-haired love child and come live with us in Paris, you know? Like I wrote you before, I know a way you can save your grandmother’s house. You just have to . . . trust me. I can’t do anything more than that online.
Massaging my upper nose in a slow, circular motion, I start tapping out a one-handed reply. It’s only a few words, but it takes me a couple minutes and several tries to make sure I don’t sound like the blubbering idiot I feel like right now.
Where and what time?
I wonder if she’s smiling wherever she is because she immediately writes Yay! About a minute later, she adds, Fondue. Oh God, please tell me you love fondue? After I respond positively she types one last comment:
Kickass—Fondue it is, then. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven, and I promise to have you home by midnight. See, I’m a respectful date and won’t even try to get to second base. Catch up with you soon!
I send Kylie a couple more messages asking her if she’s going for casual or formal dress and whether she can park at the end of the driveway so Gram doesn’t see her, but she doesn’t answer either of them. I startle when I hear the front door slam. It rattles the bookshelf in the corner of my room, and I stumble off the bed, nearly breaking my neck on a pair of tall boots I left in the middle of the floor. Glancing out the window, I see my grandmother’s Land Rover sitting in the driveway, backed in so that the open trunk is closest to the house.
I heave a sigh of relief.
A moment later, Gram yells up the stairs in a noticeably tired voice, “Sienna?”
“I’m here, Gram!” I call out, slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops.
I reach the foyer as Gram shuffles through the front door, struggling with several bags of groceries. Quickly, I scoop them out of her hands where the plastic has started to make harsh indentations on her wrists. She offers me a grateful look.
“I stopped and picked up some food for you so you won’t starve to death while you’re here. All your favorites, and I’ll even cook them,” she says, just a touch too brightly.
I can see into the back of her SUV from where I’m standing. There are at least a dozen more bags in the trunk alone, not to mention what might be in the backseat. I feel a swell in my ribcage because my grandmother is on the verge of losing her house and having to spend money to relocate somewhere else. We both know she’s not got the funds to do things like stock a house with the foods I enjoy.
Instead of pointing this out to Gram, or immediately grilling her about where she’s been, I move the bags in my right hand up and around my wrist and give her hand a tiny squeeze.
“Thanks, Gram,” I say. Then, keeping my tone as light and as teasing as possible, I add “You haven’t cooked in, what? A year or two ago, when Seth was still in high school?”
Gram lets out a throaty chuckle. “You’re worth it.”
I insist she take a breather in the family room while I store the groceries. She doesn’t give me hell, like usual, but goes willingly. It’s so obvious that she’s dead tired, so I try hard to remain as quiet as feasibly possible so I won’t bother her while she rests.
Unloading the bags is a monotonous task that reminds me of my time bagging groceries at the store up the street when I was in high school. I’m grinning by time I finish because I have images of cart-racing with my co-workers and an even more vivid picture of racing wardrobe racks on the set of Echo Falls with Vickie, the other wardrobe assistant.
If I ever got the nerve to do something like that, Tomas would shit a few bricks.
The digital clock on the stove catches my eye. 5:45. I’ll be with Kylie soon, and there’s a chance—albeit not a very strong one—that I’ll know what to do to make sure this house stays in Gram’s possession.
Speed walking into the living room, I say, “Hey, I’m going to—” But I stop short. My grandmother is asleep on the couch, snoring, her chest rising and falling. “Head out with a friend,” I whisper. Turning to leave, I notice a balled up piece of paper in the corner of the doorway. I stoop down and pick it up, unraveling it. It’s the grocery receipt from Gram’s massive shopping expedition. But it’s not the amount of money she has spent that makes my heart beat faster. It’s the city and state the groceries were purchased in.