Page 22 of Pour Decisions
Dad’s approval is more important than it would be if he weren’t my father. Way more. If it didn’t matter, I would have done things so much differently. I wouldn’t be trying to balance my ambitions and his expectations like a tightrope walker. I would just push ahead because I know I have good ideas.
But what is she expecting? She knows I’ve wanted to take over the family business since I was a kid. This is the game I need to play for now.
“Well, whatever you want to do, do it,” she says with a way of her hand. “Anyway, I met this young gal at the farmers’ market who —”
“I don’t want to be set up,” I say, washing my hands. My mom has started trying to set me up, but I’ve been dodging her attempts left and right. I know most women my age around here—they’re either married, or not my type at all.
My type is Katrina, and only Katrina, which doesn’t bode well for my love life in the future.
“I’m not your mother. I’m not going to throw you at any woman who’s breathing,” Nana says. “But sheisvery pretty.”
“Nana.”
“Relax. She’s not into dating right now. But she’s trying to get out there and do more fun stuff. I should get her to drag your ass out of the house every once in a while.”
“How do you know some acquaintance will willingly drag me along?” I ask, dumping the pasta in. “Who said she wants to be saddled with an asshole?”
“Well, you’re not a true asshole,” Nana says. “You’ve got a good heart under all that.”
I can’t help but smirk. Nana is one of the few people who can call me an asshole and make me feel like it’s a term of endearment.
“Still. This alleged ‘good’ part doesn’t show up right away,” I point out as I start putting together the sauce. “If you throw me into a situation with a total stranger, I doubt she’ll have a good time.”
Bubba sighs from his place on the carpet, like he can see through my shit. Yeah, I’m not exactly known for being fun, but mostly, new social situations make me sweat if it’s outside of a work context. With work there’s always an objective, but socializing usually doesn’t have one besides fun. And there are too many variables that go into a good time for me to give myself over that easily.
“But you could try.” Nana stands up and goes to the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of sweet tea. “Stretch your wings a little bit. Maybe meet up with your opposite and shake things up.”
I sigh through my nose. “I really am busy, Nana. I have work stuff, then I have physical therapy twice a week that cuts into that. The rest of the time I’m taking care of stuff at home.”
And trying not to go insane living in Katrina’s presence. But I’m not starting that conversation with Nana right now.
“So you never have a second of down time?” Nana pours us each a glass of tea. “Not a second to sit down and watch TV or play video games or anything like that?”
Nana isn’t going to leave this alone, is she? Idohave a little bit of time in a day for that, but maybe a half hour. Even walks with Bubba are times for me to plan. I used to use the gym as my place to decompress, but now that I have to stick to lighter moves, it doesn’t unfurl all the mental knots I have.
“I do have a little time. Maybe even some on a weeknight,” I say with a sigh.
“Perfect. I’ll text her now. We can make it a surprise—a blind friend date.” Nana beams, leaning up against the counter and pulling her phone out of the pocket of her house dress. She slides her glasses down her nose and starts poking at the screen.
“Was this meal a ploy to get me to hang out with this random person you met?” I ask.
“Maybe a little bit.” She taps around on her screen a little more, going painfully slow. “My Nana senses told me you needed something to shake things up.”
I grunt in response. Nana has a good sense of this kind of thing—I’m one of sixteen of her grandkids, and pretty much all of us have a good relationship with her.
Even so, I can’t shake the little twinge of tightness at the base of my throat. I’ve worked with Dad for years and always did what he expected. But is that becoming more harmful than I thought?
“I’m serious, JD,” Nana says softly, like she’s reading my mind without looking at me. Her tone is more of a punch to the gut than anything else. “Just think on it, okay?”
“Okay.”
She groans as she stands up and peers over my shoulder, where I’ve started cooking up Bubba’s shrimp.
“Did you season that?” Nana sounds horrified.
“No, this is for him.” I nod toward Bubba, who perks up.
“Oh, thank god.” Nana puts her hand to her chest. “I thought I’d have to disown you for that. Put some more seasoning on ours. Don’t skimp out on me now.”
