Page 76 of Intoxicated
Chapter 25
CHER
You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Surprised, are you? Sure, once you saw the look on Drew’s face, you probably started putting two and two together. Congratulations! You can do basic, first-grade math. I bet you also read simple sentences and can tell me what an adjective is.
How about this adjective?Shocked.A great way to describe Drew Benton as he stands in his grandmother’s kitchen, staring at me like I’ve come back from the dead.
“Hey.” That’s all I say. I’m busy. Shelling peas, or whatever you call what I’m doing. It’s been an hour of me popping open these little green shells and watching peas plop out of them. While I wouldn’t call Drew’s grandma alittle old lady,she’s little, old, and definitely a lady. She may wear old clothes, live in this grody house, and cook like she’s afraid of spending money at the supermarket, but my God, you can still smell the Benton on her. She’s wearing Chanel No. 5. The classic, especially if you’re of an older generation.
By the way, can we address the elephant in the room? No, no, I’m not calling Irene Benton anelephant.Do not take me the wrong way, thanks. (Seriously. Step away from Reddit. Or Tumblr. Or Facebook, I don’t care. I’m not in the mood to be in your daily list ofThese Bitches Who Seriously Said Shit.I used to have such a list, so I know what I’m talking about. Back. Away.) I expected all sorts of women when I rolled up to her front door for a brief introduction for reasons I’mstillattempting to explain. I was prepared for either a scruffy woman in farmer’s clothing, or a well-to-do former socialite who plays at homesteading. Well, I definitely got the scruffy farmer.
I thought, you know… she would be white?
Look! I’m in Eastern Washington, not exactly known for its racial diversity. And the Bentons are well, shall we say,old-fashioned.Things may change over the generations, but I didn’t peg Drew’s grandfather as someone “progressive” enough to openly marry a black woman instead of keeping her as a secret lover. Then again, having hung around Irene for about three hours now, I get the feeling she’s not someone’s dirty little secret. She would never in a million years let things stay that way. Either Drew’s grandfather married her, or they separated.
I get her appeal. She speaks her mind and is handy around the house. If I were Drew’s grandfather and looking for a new wife, I might be inclined to tell my country club friends to kindly withdraw the sticks from their asses and then promptly beat them with said sticks. They would kind of deserve it, yes?
“Uh…” Drew still has his keys in his hand. He looks between his grandmother and me. I go back to shelling peas. Irene hops into the kitchen and checks on her ribs. Oh, you can still smell them? My olfactory fatigue settled in an hour ago. All I smell is the regret simmering deep in my heart. And the lust I’m probably building from looking at Drew Benton in his tight flannel and tighter jeans. Should I tell him off for wearing suchcompressingpants? Or should I let his grandmother have the honors? I bet we’re similar in the ways we love to verbally beat up the men in our lives. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?” he continues to ask.
Since Irene is busy in the kitchen, I’m left to do the honors.
Hm. What should I tell him?
I guess I can tellyouthe truth. Or what there is of it. There really isn’t much to say, if I’m being 100% honest. I spent most of yesterday feeling like a fool for going as far as I have with Drew. My mind remains a cloud of unrest, every drop of precipitation threatening to fall from it only compounded by the lightning stirring in my gut. Lest you think that’s a statement about the food I eat, let me assure you – I listen to my gut a lot. When it starts stirring, let alone inviting electrical storms into my life, I take heed. Usually you run for cover in a crazy electrical storm, right? It’s the same in this situation. Pardon me if I’m a bit frank when I say I’d rather shit lightning than get struck by it.
Guess that’s a convoluted way to say I couldn’t help but look into what kind of man Drew is. I mean, anyone can hire a private investigator to dig up the dirty stuff. I could find some of his friends and get their biased opinions. Yet I remembered an off-handed comment he made more than once. One about his own grandmother who currently resides in this town (technically) in Eastern Washington. If the silence in our conversations were too much, Drew would change subjects to his grandmother, the little-known Irene Benton. She was only married to Drew’s grandfather for a few years. Very few pictures, or at least I didn’t seeanywhen I went looking. I was able to dig up her address based on the info he leaked, however.
What possessed me to rent a car and come here, however? Not sure. Too much to drink, maybe. The need to get out of Portland. To drive for the first time in months. To put as much distance between myself and Drew as I feasibly could at such short notice.
I had to know, I guess. I wanted to know what kind of grandmother had him coming around to take care of her all the time. I needed to see who had temporarily raised him when he was a boy. I wanted her damning opinions of his worst traits and to hear what she thought was a decent case for his character.
You can imagine her reaction when I showed up at her door. When I told this stranger that I was dating her grandson and needed some advice, she didn’t ask any questions. Just opened her doors and motioned for me to come inside, like she had expected me all along. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s been waiting for Drew to set aside his playboy ways long enough for a woman like me to appear and change his life.
Yeah, no. I’m not mantling that moniker anytime soon. But I can’t lie. These past few hours have beeninteresting.While I didn’t tell Irene the whole details about how we met, Ididtell her that he and I had the kind of volatile dating histories that made it difficult to trust one another. He thinks I’m a sugar-baby sponging off his money. When I said that, Irene nodded over her bowl of peas, as if she agreed that’s what I looked like. Yet when I followed that up with,“I have no reason to believe he’s not a total dick working me too,”she continued to nod. She agreed that we both suck.
Now here we are. I’ve been telling her a little about myself, mostly some of my dating history and what I like to do, while she throws in the random comment about herself or relates it back to her grandson. Drew showed up not too far into a story about Jason Rothchild and how I turned down his proposal last Christmas. Irene was halfway through saying,“Typical man, putting you on the spot like that,”when she heard Drew’s truck coming down the driveway. I’ve been steeling myself since.
“Thought I’d meet your grandma.” That’s all I say as I finish this small stack of peas. Irene comes back to fetch the bowl, rinse the peas, and add them to whatever she’s cooking as a side dish. I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not really into peas. “You told me such interesting things about her.”
His mouth drops. “I didn’t tell youanythingabout her!”
“No kidding.” Irene has her back to me. I raise my eyebrows at her grandson, and he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he mouths.
