Page 51 of Friendshipped
“You need to gobble up all life offers you at your age, so you don’t look back with regrets. You’ll have some. We all do. But, minimize them. Spin and jump and take risks. That’s what youth is for. You’ll have the rest of your life to make sense of it all.”
“Okay, Memaw,” I promise.
I feel the light press of tears in my eyes. Whenever Memaw talks like this, I’m reminded she won’t be with me forever. I pat the hand that’s gripping my arm and lead us toward her recliner.
Memaw continues chatting along the way.
“I’m so glad to see you, Lexi. Where’s Trevor?”
“He’s got a date.”
“What? I thought you said he had a date.”
“He does”
And it bothers me more than I’d like to admit.
He’s managed to root for my love life on the daily. He has sat by and listened to all the sordid details each time I’ve gone out with someone. He obviously has no problem being my wingman.
I need to batten down my feelings and show a little enthusiasm for his dating life. I try to muster my inner cheerleader. She sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her arms, stubbornly refusing to celebrate Trevor going out with Meg. I can’t say I blame her.
“What’s he doing on a date with any girl but you?”
“Trevor date me? We’re just friends,” I assure both Memaw and myself.
“Trevor doesn’t think of you as a friend. Unless you are, what do they call it?”
“What?”
“Friends with benefits,” Memaw says nodding her head.
I’m quite sure she doesn’t know what that really means at least I hope she doesn’t, I’m certainly not about to clarify and pop her bubble.
“No. We’re just friends.”
“Whatever you say, dear. These eyes may need trifocals, but I’m not blind enough I can’t see what’s between you.”
It’s more like a case of wishful thinking, but I don’t have it in me to correct her.
We approach the recliner and I stop so Memaw can turn to put the back of her legs against the chair.
“I have been wanting to talk to you after this past weekend when Bill took me dancing. We went over to the country western roadhouse in Vandalia for some two-steppin.”
“Sounds fun,” I say as I lower her toward her recliner. I walk over to the couch and take a seat.
Hearing about her dates with Bill makes me acutely aware that my grandmother’s love life is thriving while mine shrivels like a grape in the midday summer sun. My love life is the raisin of all love lives.
Memaw’s brows draw together and she purses her lips. Then she says, “I know the app hasn’t been good to you. I won’t try to convince you it will be. I do have a young man I want you to meet.”
Please, no.
It’s come to this: I’m being fixed up by my grandma. My raisin of a love life now looks like the last tiny, dried, pathetic raisin stuck in the bottom of the box, the one you never bother eating.
I’ve hit a new low if my grandma is my matchmaker.
She carries on undeterred.
“The young man’s name is Joshua. He’s nice. I met him. He’s Bill’s grandson, so we know he’s from good stock. He used his manners with me. And Bill says wonderful things about him, but that’s not saying much. We all say good things about our grandchildren. It’s part of the grandparent code.”
