Easy Mode
At breakfast the next morning, Twyla felt like Arturo was avoiding her. He was conveniently on the opposite side of the room at all times, even as she made her rounds hugging all of her aunts and uncles before
When she stepped inside the game room, she found the large room empty save for her aunt Mable who sat at the bar on the right side of the room, and Mable's son Nelson who stood behind the bar with a cocktail shaker in his hand.
They were laughing and didn't seem to be moving any time soon and while the scene looked inviting, Twyla paused in the doorway to think.
She'd intended to be alone with her thoughts and didn't want to bring anyone else down with her shitty mood.
It was why she'd insisted that Vanessa stay on the lake with the others when she'd tried to follow her inside.
Although, with the way Nessa had taken a liking to Rafael, it hadn't taken much convincing to get her to remain in his vicinity.
"You stand there too much longer you gon' sprout roots."
A smile spread across her lips at her Aunt Mable's quip.
Aunt Mable was the second youngest of the Jacobs clan and—
Oh. That's right.
Twyla blinked a few times to clear away the frown that had begun to form as reality slapped her in the face again. Her aunt Mable wasn't the second youngest because her mother wasn't the youngest.
Arturo was the youngest. Arturo was her late grandfather's sixth and final child. Arturo, who—until three months ago—she hadn't even known was a branch on her beloved family tree.
Twyla sat at the bar, her cheek propped on her fist as she stared out a tumbler of Jameson in front
"Why ya ain't bring a lil friend witcha?"
"I brought Vanessa, Aunt Mable."
"Nah, ya know what I mean. A lil friend you can share the bed with."
Twyla burst into laughter. "I don't have one of them."
"Since when? Ya mama say you sweet on somebody with an accent. What happened to him?"
Twyla rolled her lips into her mouth to keep from sucking her teeth.
"Family emergency."
The door slides open and Arturo steps inside.
Twyla straightens. Stares longingly. She can't even help it.
He stares right back.
She's in her head, thinking about what they could've been doing if things were different.
Aunt Mable. "How ya mama nem, Griff?"
"My mama is doing well. She sends her love."
Mable laughs. "Boy a lie don't care who tell it."
Arturo grins, abashed. "How are you, Mable?"
"Old. Tired." She raises her glass. "Drunk."
Nelson scoffs. "Woman, I put less than an ounce of whiskey in that glass."
"I know but I had about two glasses of that punch with my breakfast."
Eyes widening, Twyla jerked her head back.
"Uncle Marshall's rum punch?" Twyla had taken one sip of the concoction and seven strands of coily taco meat had immediately sprouted on her chest. How the hell her septugenarian aunt had sucked down two glasses worth and was still standing was an unsolved mystery.
Mable smacked her lips as if she could still taste the coral-colored beverage. "Mmhm. Sho' was good too."
Nelson laugh. "Just a lush."
"Shut yo mouf, Nelson Jefferson." Once again, the older woman raised her glass. "And pour me another drink."
He shot Twyla and Arturo a look but proceeded to do as he was told.
Twyla is confused. Thinks about what she heard. "Aunt Mable. Why'd you call Arturo Griff?"
"He named afta Daddy. You ain't know that?"
"No, I—I just found out about him a couple weeks ago so," she met his eyes briefly before looking back at her aunt, "I don't know much of anything about him being family."
"And that's a damn shame. Linda of all people shoulda told you—I been tellin' that heifer for years—"
Nelson pulled the bottle of whiskey back. "Mama, maybe you don't need another one."
Mable glared. "Hush up boy and pour the damn drink! I swear you hardheaded just like ya damn daddy!" Mable looked around the room. "Speakin' of ya daddy, where he at? I'm feelin' a lil loose in the caboose and need him to come tighten a few screws." She winked at Twyla. "If ya know what I mean."
Nelson gagged then pointed to the door. "Get outta here right now!"
She giggled. "You gon' hafta help me down the stairs."
He came from around the bar and held his arm out for her to grab it. "Let's go, woman."
They leave down the hallway. Twyla and Arturo are alone.
"Why didn't you tell me your name is Griffin? We might have figured things out sooner."
"My name is Arturo. The only person who called me Griffin was my father."
"Your father." Twyla's face fell. "My grandfather."
They fell into an unpleasant silence, and Twyla wanted it to end but she didn't know what to say.
This was the most bizarre experience of her life.
So wild a story line that it seemed plucked directly from those daytime soap operas her grandmother religiously watched.
Hell, the only thing that would make this more dramatic was if her grandfather popped up at the cabin claiming that he'd been in a coma for the last twenty-eight years.
"I wasn't hiding anything from you, Twyla."
Startled, and—admittedly—a little guilty, Twyla began stammering. "I wasn't—I didn't—" But…wasn't she? Didn't she? It had crossed her mind more than once since they'd been in Tennessee that maybe she was being foolish to believe he had no idea whatsoever.
When she failed to form a relevant and complete sentence, Arturo sighed and nodded.
"It's okay, Twyla. I don't fault you for believing the worst of me. I simply regret not presenting myself in such a way that it would have never crossed your mind that I could do something like that."
He took a few steps backward before turning to exit through the same door he'd come through.
The girl is sad. Mad. Wants to scream. Walks off and finds herself in the arcade thinking about how things should've been going. Turns around and the nigga is behind her.
{Sex in the arcade room}