Page 30 of Phishing for Love
“You have to say,Hey, Google, Grandma,” Lisset pipes up.
Google comes to life at the prompt. “Here’s the definition of Grandma...”
Grandma slaps her hand on the kitchen table. “Don’t you tell us how we’re defined!”
I watch my mom reach for the wine bottle and empty the last dregs into her glass.
I stand to check on the corn and Kate follows me. “Interesting,” she says in my ear.
“What’s interesting?” I ask, although I know exactly what she’s referring to.
“This Aaron guy and your extreme reaction to him.”
“It’s not at all interesting,” I say as casually as I can, poking at the corn. “In fact, he’s the very opposite of interesting.”
Frustrating. Irritating. Annoying.
Yet I can’t stop thinking of Aaron’s vulnerability in the breakroom on Thursday. His embarrassment at having to confess his trypophobia. It made him seem more human. More layered. Moreinteresting. The very last thing I want.
Kate adds honey and a splash of cider vinegar to the bean salad. “Mom thinks this Aaron guy is lonely.”
“Not my problem,” I say dismissively.
And if he is lonely, he only has himself to blame. What do you expect when you break up with your girlfriend? In public? No woman with any modicum of sense and self-respect will go near him after that.
Nathan pops his head into the kitchen to tell us the steaks are ready. I move away from my sister, grateful to escape a conversation I have no desire to continue. Dad carries the steaks inside. Thankfully, they’re only slightly charred. I give Nathan a thank-you hug, and he tightens his arms around me, smelling pleasantly of beer and smoky barbecue.
We dish up the food in the kitchen and eat in the cool shade of my parents’ wide, back porch. The conversation is light and easy, Lisset’s chatter bubbling around us like champagne.
My father leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his beer. His back is not giving him too much grief today and he’s in a good mood. “How’s the steak?” he asks.
We all make vague, affirmative sounds.
Lisset says, too loudly, “It’s not at all burnt, Grandpa.”
Kate and I hold our breath, waiting for his reaction.
Dad’s brow creases as he looks over at her. “Of course, it’s not burnt.”
“It’sabsolutelynot,” Lisset emphasizes.
Dad taps a blackened piece with his knife. “The steak’s cooked the way it should be. Not a drop of blood in sight.”
“I smell trouble on the wind,” mutters Grandma.
“That’s just Grandpa,” Lisset declares. “He ate beans.”
We all laugh, my dad the loudest. He affectionately ruffles Lisset’s hair and the conversation meanders to football, the one topic guaranteed to animate both men.
Stuffed full of corn, salad, and bread, I stifle a yawn and fade out their discussion. I’m tempted to join my grandmother, who’s already dozing in her chair, mouth partly open.
Lisset asks about Ash, and I tell my niece a funny story about Ash jumping onto my laundry hamper, only the lid was up and, to his great shock, he fell right in and was soon buried under a pile of clothes.
Laughing in delight, Lisset turns to Kate. “Mom, can we get a kitten?”
“No.”
“A puppy?”
