Page 62 of Meddling Under the Mistletoe
“To dinners with new friends. Thank you for joining me tonight, Myra Jean.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I manage before taking a gulp of my drink. “Cheers.”
“You know what? Screw my cholesterol,”I say, plopping the remaining quarter of my burger back on the plate. “If loving something this good is wrong, I never want to be right. I want to eat this every day for the rest of my life.”
I pop a fry into my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the crunch from the initial bite that gives way to salty, pillowy-soft goodness. Red meat and fried food aren’t things I indulge in often these days, especially in light of what happened to Henry. I became hypervigilant about my heart health after that, but I forgot how good a cheeseburger and fries can be.
“I’ve never had anything here I didn’t love,” Ron says, finishing his last buffalo wing. “Not to be macabre, but I want their biscuits and gravy to be my last meal. That’s on their weekend brunch menu, and they’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I shake my head and take a healthy swig of my second cocktail. “You haven’t had mine yet. Not to toot my own horn, but they’ll change your life.”
“Toot, toot,” he teases. “I’m not so sure. These are pretty good.”
“I’m serious. My biscuit recipe was passed down from my grandmother. In fact, I’m fairly certain it’s what made my grandfather fall in love with her.”
“That’s a glowing endorsement. I guess I’m going to have to try them and judge for myself. But don’t think I’ll take it easy on you just because I like you, Myra Jean.”
“I’d be offended if you did.” My insides swirl like the dregs of my drink when I slosh the mostly-thawed cranberries around in the cup before polishing it off. “Holy shit. That bourbon really sneaks up on you.” I snort out a laugh. “Oh. I get it now.”
“That Owen knows how to make a mean cocktail.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I thread my fingers together and stretch my arms over my head. “Seems prettynice, if you ask me.” My limbs are bubbly and tingly, like somebody filled them with champagne. I haven’t felt this good in a long time. The cocktail helped to loosen me up, but what I find myself enjoying most is the company.
Ron’s lips quirk, and he lifts his salt and pepper eyebrows.
“What?” I chomp into my burger, swiping my thumb over my chin to catch the dribble of grease trickling down my skin.
He chuckles, and an almost imperceptible flush creeps onto his cheeks. “I’m not quite sure how to say this because it’s been a very long time, but Myra Jean, you are…something.”
“Something?” I echo, cocking my head to one side. “And what does that mean?”
“You’re spunky,” he says, “and fun.”
My breath catches in my throat. Fun isn’t something I’ve been accused of being for the last five years, but right now, I feellike I could simply sail away on a cloud of bourbon, carbs, and good conversation.
“Thisis fun,” Ron continues, his eyes shimmering with the reflection of the twinkle lights outside. “Spending time with you.”
My heart feels like it’s reached the highest point on a Ferris wheel, where you can see for miles, and it’s almost as if you’re flying.
“I’m having a good time too,” I say.
He gives a single nod and grins. “So, biscuits and gravy would be my last meal, but what would yours be?”
“You mean besides this burger?” I ask, resting my elbow on the table and my chin on my hand. “When Henry and I went to France on our honeymoon, there was this little patisserie that had the most amazing chocolate croissants. I must have eaten at least a dozen of them on that trip. Anytime I findpain au chocolaton a menu, I have to try it, just in case, but I’ve never had another pastry that even comes close to how good those were. So, if I get to pick, that’s what I want.”
A familiar yearning tugs on my heart as it always does when I think of my husband. But for the first time since he died, the feeling doesn’t pull me deep into an ocean of despair. The thought makes me lighter somehow. Instead of being sucked beneath the current, unable to catch my breath, I’m drifting along the surface of a lifetime of beautiful memories, each one keeping me afloat.
“Y’all still doing okay?” Owen asks as he approaches the table. “Did theholy shitkick in yet?”
“Why yes, I believe it did,” I answer with a laugh. “Well worth it, though. It was delicious.”
Owen leans against the table. “How about another?”
“You know, I might if I thought I’d still be able to stand afterward,” I joke. “So I better not.”
“How about some dessert?” Owen asks, and Ron gives me a questioning glance.
I hold up my napkin. “I’m waving the white flag. I don’t think I could eat another bite.”
