Page 37 of Betting on the Bad Boy
The microwave beeped, and Mr. Branson took his plate and grabbed some silverware from the drawer. “Shall we?” He walked into the dining room, clearly expecting us to follow.
We joined him at the table and sat down to keep him company while he ate.
“So, Mr. Branson, Faith’s a professor in the English Department,” I said.
“Just an adjunct,” she added.
Mr. Branson raised an eyebrow and looked up from his sweet potatoes. “Really? Did Dante tell you I was his English teacher?”
“No, he didn’t mention it,” Faith said. “Was he a good student?”
Mr. Branson chewed a bite of turkey. “When he wanted to be.” He gave me a pointed look.
“Aw, come on, Mr. Branson. You loved me. You always gave me A’s in your classes.”
Mr. Branson looked at Faith. “He had his moments. You should have him show you his poetry sometime.”
My cheeks ignited. Leave it to Mr. Branson to remember the freaking poetry. I’d gone through a particularly angsty period during my junior year of high school, and when Mr. Branson gave the class a few poetry assignments, I’d found a release.
“Really?” Faith gave me an appraising look.
I picked at a hangnail on my thumb and tried to think of a way to change the subject. “So how about those Colts?”
For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Branson and I debated the possibility of the Colts making the playoffs. We finally got up to leave, and he walked us to the door.
“Tell your grandmother thank you for the meal. As usual, it was delicious.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along the compliment,” I said.
Mr. Branson took Faith’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Faith.” He lowered his head and looked at her above his glasses. “The poetry, dear, ask him about his poetry.”
She smiled. “I will.”
I nudged her toward the door. “Take care, Mr. Branson. I’ll see you around.”
Mr. Branson put a hand on my arm. “That right there is a beautiful girl. Don’t let her get away.”
I removed his hand and gave him a handshake. “Is that the dementia talking, Mr. B?”
“Oh, be gone with you. Remember what I said.” Mr. Branson shooed us through the door and back out into the snowy evening.
I opened the door, and Faith climbed up into the cab. “Poetry, huh?” The reflection of the streetlight sparkled in her eyes as she smiled at me.
“He must have me confused with someone else.” No way in hell was I showing her that stuff, even if she did sound interested. I shut the door behind her and trudged through the snow to the other side.
When we got back to the senior center, Meemaw and her crew had all the tables cleaned off and the dishes washed. She and a handful of women sat at one of the tables playing cards.
“Good, you’re back. Do you want to join us?”
“Not on your life, old woman.” I turned to Faith. “She’s a card shark. Don’t let her suck you into a game.”
“Oh, pshaw.” Meemaw waved a hand at me. “It’s just a friendly game of cards.”
“Don’t listen to her, Faith. How much has she taken you for, Mrs. O’Leary?”
“Just fifty cents so far,” Mrs. O’Leary said.
“It’s only a quarter a game, dear,” Meemaw said.
