Page 98 of The Late Hit
“She’s freaking awesome. Why haven’t you introduced us sooner?” I asked quietly. Well, I thought it was quiet, but Grams hears us.
The woman doesn’t miss anything.
“Yeah, why haven’t you brought me around her before, Quinton?” Grandma chimes in, interrupting us. “You ashamed of me? Or is the honey pot too sweet to leave?”
Choking on my drink, I begin coughing as Quinton’s face turns bright red.
“Christ, Grams,” he barks out.
“Cleo, for god’s sake,” Abigail tsks in disgust.
“Oh, lighten up, Abigail. He’s a grown-ass man in college. He’s having sex. Maybe you need to remove that stick from up your ass and get laid every once in a while,” Grams retorts.
The whole table goes silent, watching the two women stare down.
I’m doing everything in my power to not burst out laughing, my eyes staying fixed on my place setting. I know if I look up at Damien, who is seated right across from me, we’re all going to lose it. I see from the corner of my eye that Quinton is trying his damnedest not to laugh too.
But Quinton makes the mistake and looks at Damien. They erupt in laughter, and I follow suit with Marcus, Quinton’s uncle, following along.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Boyd barks out. “Mom, enough.”
Her eyes leave Abigail’s as she turns to her son. “Mind your manners. Don’t forget who raised your wild ass. There was a time I was chasing hoes out of your room. At least Quinton took the time to find a good one.”
Clearing her throat, the caterer stands in the doorway. Abigail turns to her, nodding her head.
“Lunch is ready, let’s just eat.”
She ignores the dig Cleo slipped in.
I might not have Abigail’s stamp of approval, but I have Grandma Boyd’s, and that’s like winning the lottery.
Grams means the world to Quinton.
So if she approves, then I can rest easy.
Lunchisservedfamily-style.Platters of delicious food line the table. Smoked turkey, honey ham, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes with gravy, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce are all placed in front of us.
Everyone helps themselves to the food in front of us, and the conversation goes back to normal.
“So, Brynn, what are your plans after college?” Mel, Marcus’s wife, asks as we are halfway through lunch.
“I’m studying psychology with the intention of being a youth grief counselor,” I answer.
Eyes seem to find mine from around the table while Quinton’s hand finds my thigh, rubbing those damn tiny circles on my exposed skin.
Dabbing her mouth, a look of appreciation coats her face. “Wow, that’s amazing. I imagine that would be a really hard field to go into.”
“But you have experience with that, don’t you?” Abigail chimes in.
What a bitch.
It’s not that she’s saying it in a nice way, it’s almost like a dig. Well, fuck you very much, Abigail. It’s not a goddamn dig, and I’m about to make you look like a fool at your own damn table.
“Ma,” Quinton scolds, his head snapping toward her.
Finding his thigh, I give it a squeeze. His eyes find mine.
“It’s fine,” I tell him before turning my attention to Abigail.
