Page 32 of Legally Yours
Apparently, the cocksure guy wasn’t completely gone. I blushed, already feeling like a foregone conclusion.
“I thought you didn’t have time for that sort of thing,” I murmured.
“I’ll make time.” He leaned in for another brief kiss. “Like I said, I have to. I’ll pick you up at your place at eight. Wear a dress.”
“Planning something fancy?” I teased.
Brandon just smiled, his eyes suddenly full of heat that belied the cold weather. “No. You just have great legs.” Without breaking his gaze, he lifted my hand and pressed his mouth against my palm. “Good night, Skylar. And don’t go walking down any dark streets by yourself, all right?”
He watched from the sidewalk as I let myself into the house, then waved before turning away. I shut the door behind me and released the long, deep sigh I hadn’t known I’d been holding. It was going to be a long time until Friday.
Eleven
The weekend was far too short, but I was able to enjoy a few carefree days with my dad and Bubbe, playing board games on Saturday and eating Bubbe’s stuffed cabbage before Dad’s gig. Throughout, however, the conversation with Nick lingered in the back of my mind.
To his credit, Dad didn’t ask about Brandon, but that wasn’t unusual. I had dated so few men seriously, and I had brought friends to his gigs before. I didn’t want to tell him that his initial instinct was right, that I had possibly met someone special. I wasn’t sure what that meant anyway. Not yet.
“Now, Skylar, are you sure you don’t want me to pack you some cabbage for tomorrow too? We have plenty left over,” my grandmother said Sunday morning, her short, squat frame positioned at the stove while she stirred a pan full of onions and eggs.
A large blintz cooked in the oven. As was her usual routine, she had taken my visit as an excuse to stuff her family silly. I was going to have to roll myself back to Boston.
“You’re too skinny, girl, look at you. Daniel, will you look at her? Like a twig, this one. What kind of man is going to want a girl with hips like a little boy?”
She clicked her tongue a few times, and Dad winked at me over his morning paper. I was reading the finance section, the one part my dad didn’t read, while he leafed through the op-eds.
It was a familiar scene, the kind that made me wish I could stay longer just to soak in the ease of it all. Bubbe, all tight gray curls and friendly admonishments through a thick Brooklyn accent; Dad, with his feigned apathy and late-morning coffee; and me, dodging comments about my weight and the men in my life. A typical Crosby breakfast.
“Ma, be nice,” Dad muttered absently. “Pips, you’re gorgeous, and don’t let anyone else try to tell you otherwise. She’s gorgeous, Ma, you got it?”
Bubbe tugged the blintz out from the oven, engulfing the small room with the scent of sweet pastry, and set it on the table with the eggs. She skittered back to grab our dishes and cutlery, and Dad and I both folded away our papers so we could eat.
“Of course she’s beautiful, Daniel. Did I say she wasn’t?” Bubbe leaned over and pecked me on the cheek, no doubt leaving a lipstick stain I wouldn’t dare wipe off within her sight.
“No, you didn’t say that, Ma.” Dad set the paper down on the table and stood. “Pips, is your bag packed? I’m going into the city, so I can give you a ride to Grand Central.”
The clatter of a dropped spatula interrupted him. We both found my normally coordinated grandmother frantically scooping splattered eggs off the linoleum floor.
“You all right, Ma?” Dad asked as he helped her stand up.
She batted away his hands and tossed the paper towels into the garbage next to the sink. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy. Go pack up. I’ll take care of this.”
Dad backed away, his hands raised. “You’re the boss.”
Bubbe finished cleaning up the floor, then marched over to sit next to me at the table, fresh spatula in hand.
“You are gorgeous, sweetheart,” she said with a warm rub on my back. “Just need a little more meat on these bones. Here, this’ll help.” She scooped me some eggs and cut a huge slice of blintz.
“Bubbe, that’s too much!” I protested.
She waved away my concerns and proceeded to serve herself a much smaller portion. Then she scooted her chair closer, checking quickly behind her as my dad bounded out the front door with my bag.
“Before he comes back,” she said in a low voice. “I found some tickets in his pants the other week while I was doing the laundry. Stubs from the track.”
She scooted back to her plate and calmly picked up her fork, satisfied that she had met her moral obligation.
My fork hovered over my plate of food, which was now about as attractive as the contents of our garbage pail. “Are you sure they were from the track? Not movie tickets or something else?”
In return, I received an expression of pure disdain that only my grandmother knew how to give. “What do I look like, a fool? I may be an old woman, but I know the difference between a ticket for that superhero what’s his face and a bet on a horse.” She bent back down to take another bite of her blintz. “Iwasmarried to your grandfather after all.”