4. Aria #2
She was excited for me to show up. I sit and crack open my can, sliding the straw in the top.
A familiar warmth settles over me. Yes, we fought like cats and dogs, but we always had our little cake and Coke sessions to hold our relationship together.
She’d tell me about my parents, or things that happened when she was young.
Granny always had some shockingly relatable story to haul out.
She told me about how she and Gramps fell in love. Gramps would pop in from tinkering in the garage and confirm or deny various aspects of that story, steal a slice of lemon cake, and disappear again.
I touch the peace lily on the table, noting the florist tag on it.
“From Gramps’s funeral,” I say.
Granny nods, plucking at a yellowed leaf tip on an otherwise immaculate plant. “It’s held up pretty nicely.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agree.
She purses her lips and I know I’m about to get it. “Interesting that you’ll come home for some woods-stomping adventure with Mr. Hines, but you won’t come home to be with your old grandmother.”
I sigh, folding my hands neatly on the table. If I show signs of weakness, she’ll pick more. “He’s Dr. Hines or Richard, Granny. You know that.”
She primps the back of her hair, which I know for a fact she got done at her every Tuesday set appointment at the only salon in town.
It’s always funny watching these young, hip women style the town’s old ladies’ hair, but they do it with the grace and respect that they would use for their own grannies. “Did he ask about me?”
I hold back a laugh. Granny dated Richard in high school.
They’re both in their late seventies or better now.
She always talks like she’s his one that got away, and he always talks like he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
I choose a fib. “He sends his regrets. He has to keep his morning coffee shop routine.”
Granny sniffs. “Are you still doing your . . . internet pornography thing?”
Now I actually laugh. “Granny, come on. I make videos about mushrooms. I encourage people to get out in nature. That’s hardly pornography.”
She inspects her pristine mauve-colored nails. “Everything on the internet comes back to sex.” I don’t think she realizes how funny she is with her off-the-wall hot takes, but it’s part of what keeps me from completely cutting her out of my life. “And your boyfriend?”
I force a smile. “We broke up.”
She huffs like I’ve just given her some awful task to manage. “Well, there is this nice boy at church. I bet if you spent less time outside?—”
I check the clock on the kitchen stove before cutting her off. Another hour of this before I go get Richard. “No, Granny.”
I pull up to Skye’s farmhouse at around 7:30 p.m., bracing myself for battle. I can’t turn around and say I found the wrong house because I’m on a damn farm. I’m pretty sure a goat is looking at me right now, but it’s getting dark out. Hard to tell.
Shouldn’t goats be inside now?
Like I summoned it with my thoughts of goat bedtimes, a pajama-clad toddler rushes the goat.
“Luna!” a man, who I assume is Skye’s partner, calls from the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the house’s light. “Don’t scare her!”
I’m not sure if “her” is me in my car or the goat, but I feel I should probably go inside and stop avoiding the inevitable.
I sniff in a breath and get out of my car, toting a gas station bag full of junk food and a bottle of wine that is sure to taste absolutely terrible. I wave over my head to the man, who gives some sort of salute back.
Skye opens the door with wide arms, wine wafting off her as she whisper yells, “You made it!”
“I did!” I also whisper yell, stepping into her hug.
“Sorry, the guys are putting the girls down so I can’t yell.”
I point to the side of the house where I saw the goat. “I think maybe one of your kids was still chasing a goat?”
Skye laughs. “That tracks. But come in, come in, let’s see what you brought.”
The Skye I used to know only spoke in witty comebacks and hateful glares.
This Skye is, well, for one, drunk, but also much bubblier than I remember.
The front door snicks open and Iris pops into the kitchen.
She wears sweatpants and a tank top that has seen better days, but being who she is, she still somehow looks put together. “Hey, Aria!”
These two have been two peas in a pod since I can remember, with Iris the sweet, diplomatic one, and Skye as the previously established scary one. It’s weird knowing someone as a kid, then finding out they’re somewhat the same and also very much different as an adult.
“What are you wearing?” Skye chides her.
“Oh. It’s my tornado shirt. The guys like it when I still wear it sometimes. For the memories.”
Skye wrinkles her nose. “Okay, you know what, I don’t need to hear about what you and your three boyfriends get into.”
Iris shrugs, popping a grape into her mouth. “You asked.”
I am still quite lost. “Sorry, three boyfriends?”
Iris blushes, but Skye is more than happy to explain it. “Oh, you haven’t heard how our Iris seduced all three Boom Brothers?”
I put my hands out. “You are . . . with? Three brothers?”
“They’re not actually brothers,” Iris explains. “It’s their brand. They’re meteorologists who came here to study the tornadoes and uh . . . we bonded. And now they’re here a lot of the time. I mean, Colin and Garrett go back to Oklahoma. In fact, they’re going back after the Fling.”
Ah, the Fling: Foxboro’s fall festival that spans a few days and involves all sorts of small-town frivolity.
“She captivated the grumpy, angry, old one the most, imagine that,” Skye says. “Wyatt’s not going back, is he?”
Iris pouts. “He does have to go this time. But he’ll be back soon.”
“Tell me if I’m being rude, but . . . they’re all your boyfriends, but are they each other’s boyfriends?”
“They are!” Iris’s eyes light up. “Most people in this town can’t wrap their brains around any of this.
But hey, they voted me mayor and my term isn’t up for another two years.
That’s two years to convince them there’s nothing wrong with sharing or poly or queerness or doing whatever the hell you want in your own house. ”
I bob my head, impressed. “I love that.”
“Okay, enough chit chat. Fill your plates and glasses and let’s hit the couch,” Skye says, gesturing to the spread we’ve put together. “The real question is, vintage Housewives , or current?”
I’m snuggled under a blanket and my plate has nothing but Fritos crumbs and blue Takis dust. A collar jangles and little nails sound on the hardwood floor. The dog, who looks much more like an oversized rodent, jumps up in my lap and rolls onto his back for pets.
“Oh, hello,” I say, obliging the admittedly stinky little dog. Its fur is so patchy that I have to question it. “He doesn’t . . . have mange, does he?”
“Templeton was injured in a fire.”
The voice from behind me puts every nerve in my body on edge. I turn, almost certain who it is.
And there, filling the doorway, is Brodie in all his square dark glasses, shiner-having glory. A little girl is asleep on his shoulder.
I get the sudden feeling I’ve been bamboozled. “What are you doing here?”