Chapter Thirty-Two #2
My heartbeat stutters, a sensation I’m completely unprepared for, and I almost drop the phone. Grace, Emi, and Isabel watch as I struggle to wipe the smile off my face.
You do that.
Got to get back to this blanket or Marlene will start asking questions. A lot of them.
He ends the exchange with a kiss emoji, and suddenly, we’re back on equal footing.
“Well?” Grace asks. “Did he apologize? Did you? Will there be a second date?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes. Now can we please talk about something else besides my suddenly not non-existent love life? We’re failin’ the Bechdel test here. Someone’s gotta have good gossip to share.”
“I’ll make us another round.” Emi pops out of the recliner like something bit her in the ass, then practically dances her way back to the kitchen. “There’s drama in the newsroom you’re all gonna love.”
Isabel follows her, leaving just Grace and me on the couch. “Wait. What is your middle name?” she asks.
I groan. “Ilana.”
“Oh, my God. Your initials spell PIE?” She claps her hand over her mouth, laughing so hard, tears spill down her cheeks.
“My mom was a chef. One with a wicked sense of humor.” I rest my head on Grace’s shoulder. She knows more about my mom than anyone here, but that still ain’t much.
“You never answered Isabel’s question,” she says softly once her giggles subside. “Do you know?”
“It’s still new. But I like him, Grace. He sees me.”
With a smile, she squeezes my hand. “You spend too much time hiding. You deserve to be seen.”
“Parker! Come grab Grace’s margarita and the veggie tray. If Emi’s gonna dish about drama at Channel Five, we’re gonna be here a while,” Isabel calls from the kitchen.
I tighten my fingers around Grace’s for a brief moment. “You see me too. I think you always have.”
“Parker! Did you hear me?”
Laughing, I wriggle forward until the couch isn’t swallowing my entire ass, then push up with only a small wince. God, I can’t wait for the stitches to come out. “Hold your damn horses. Your couch didn’t want to let me go. Emi, make my next one a virgin. I’m drivin’ Grace home when we’re done.”
“You got it, babe. All the spice, none of the tequila. We should call this the Parker.” Emi holds up the glass. “Enough heat to bowl you over, with no regrets or bad decisions.”
I love these women. And for some reason, they love me too. I wish I knew what I did to deserve them. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I didn’t have to do anything but be…me.
Eliot
I slide my phone back into my pocket, and only then realize the entire room has gone silent.
Marlene, Ruth, Betty, and Jean are all staring at me.
Fuck.
Ignoring them is the only strategy I have, though I’m certain it won’t work. It’s never worked.
I pick up my needles, count the number of stitches from my last marker, and add three more in a blue so bright, Cookie Monster would be jealous.
My eyes burn if I stare at the damn blanket too long, but the women fawned over the pattern when I first sat down.
I didn’t say a word. Marlene may have been right, but I won’t admit that under pain of death. I’d never hear the end of it.
“You’re smiling,” Marlene says, a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
“I’m knitting.”
“And smiling. After being on that phone of yours for at least four minutes.”
Jean glances down at her watch, then back at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you touch your phone in six years of coming here.”
“Never had a reason before. I did tonight.”
Five more stitches, and I switch to the surface-of-the-sun yellow.
“Eliot, when I taught fourth grade, my students would pass notes and whisper secrets across the aisle all the time. You know what I used to say to them?” Betty asks, working three strands of her peach yarn at once.
“No, ma’am. But I reckon you’re gonna tell me.”
“Anything more important than what you’re doing right now is important enough to be shared with the class.”
“Y’all can see what I’m doing right now. It’s a half-drop repeat. You were here when Marlene showed me how to do it.”
Marlene huffs. “You don’t smile when you work on half-drop repeats. You cursed up a storm trying to learn them.”
I keep my mouth shut. She’s right. Again. I hate half-drop repeats, but they don’t waste yarn at the color changes, and a kid will probably love the pattern.
“Eliot Flint. Who is she?” Marlene demands.
I almost drop a stitch. The pause is brief—only a half second—but it’s enough for the ladies to notice.
“Look at him,” Jean says and picks up a chocolate chip cookie. “He’s the color of a tomato.”
“I am not.”
Betty chuckles. “Your ears are.”
I reach for my ear before I can stop myself, which only confirms they’ve hit the nail on the fucking head.
“Fine.” A sigh heaves my shoulders, and I set the needles down. “I’m seein’ someone. It’s new, I don’t know where it’s goin’, and I ain’t talkin’ about it.”
Jean’s laugh violates at least one noise ordinance. Add in Marlene’s, and the host of the restaurant next door probably thinks someone’s being murdered in here.
With a wide grin, Marlene slides the plate of cookies closer to me. “How new?”
“A week. Not even.”
With the tone she used to talk me into this yarn, Marlene keeps prodding. “Who is she? What does she do?”
If I don’t put a stop to this right quick, these ladies will have me handing over Parker’s name, phone number, address, and rank before the end of the night.
By next week, Marlene will have run a thorough background check, and Jean will show up with color swatches and cake samples all lined up for a wedding.
But if I give them nothing, I’ll have to pack up and leave. Now. Without trying Ruth’s caramel apple bars.
“She’s a Texas Ranger. And that’s all you’re gettin’.”
“A Ranger…” Betty presses a hand to her chest. “Does she carry a gun?”
“I’m fixin’ to leave if all y’all don’t stop pushing. And when I come back, it’ll be with a stash of navy blue yarn from Knitty Fiber. You’ll never see how this blanket turns out. Or know what I do with it.”
Betty cackles. “He’s got you there, Marlene. Leave the poor boy alone.”
Marlene clucks her tongue, snatches up her needles, and goes back to turning the heel of a pink and purple striped sock. “Knitty Fiber? Really, Eliot?”
“Yup.”
“Fine. I’ll mind my own business. For now.”
We settle back into our usual rhythm, Ruth complaining about her arthritis, Jean fawning over her grandson’s kindergarten graduation photos, and Betty adding yet more rows to the world’s longest scarf.
I can still feel Marlene’s eyes on me as I go back to my own work, switching to a green so obnoxious, I’m convinced it’s radioactive. But after a few stitches, I can see the beauty in the way the colors come together.
But if anyone asks, I’ll deny it until the day I die.