Page 9 of Lucky Laces
Not that he’s disrespectful or misogynistic.
He just…isn’t doing well.
And I haven’t figured out the correct levers to pull to motivate him.
“Just set ’em there, missy,” Ernest says, nodding at the counter and I realize I’m standing there, thinking about the guys…and still holding the groceries.“I’ll put them away later.”
Right.
Enough.
I’m leaving all of the Jason and work thoughts behind, focusing on the fact that my neighbor is sweet and widowed and saved me from what would have no doubt been an unpleasant altercation.
“Nope,” I tell him.“I’ll put some of them away now and the rest,” I add, raising my volume when he starts to protest, “I’ll use to cook you something yummy.Andnotfrozen.”
Because he survives on frozen TV dinners.
Which are fine—hell, every once in a while I crave a Hot Pocket.
But it’s not the same as sitting across the table from someone, having a nice conversation, and eating a home-cooked meal.
“Diana—”
“We’re eating together,” I say firmly.
“You’re not wasting your night with an old man.”
“I’m not wasting my night withanyman,” I tell him.“I’m having a nice meal with my friend.”
“Missy—”
Giving up on words, I nudge him over to a chair at the worn wooden table and pull out a bottle of grape soda—his favorite.“Sit.”I pass over the bottle.“Drink.”I turn back to the bags.“And tell me what’s happening with your grandkids while I cook.”The only topic that can distract a stubborn old man from what he wants.
He scowls.
But only for a moment.
Because, as I mentioned, he loves talking about his grandkids.
I put away the perishables aside from what I’m going to use for the fish and veggies—give the man something healthy and something green.Well…and something tasty.
“Is that rocky road ice cream I see?”he asks, pausing in the description of his kindergarten grandson’s first time at show and tell—when he showed and told the class about his collection of crayons.
Yup.
Crayons.
All one hundred and sixty-two of them.
Because he and the class had counted.
My lips twitch—both at the crayon counting and Ernest’s laser-eyed focus of the tub of ice cream.“It’s vanilla,” I say (though I take note of the rocky road thing for later), “and I’m using it for the root beer floats we’re having for dessert.”
His face lights up.
I smile, go back to chopping veggies and prepping the fish.“Now tell me about what’s happening with Donovan.”
“Oh you know,” he says, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other, “he’s himself—breaking hearts and preparing to take over the world.”
