For the Love of Friends(35)

“You need help,” my mother told her. “You can’t get your own luggage to the airport, let alone deal with checking it, and you ought to be in a wheelchair to get on the plane.”

“I’m not riding in a wheelchair like some invalid,” she argued, brandishing a fork at my mother. “You act like I’ve never flown on an airplane, but I’ve been all over the world and I’ll do it all again. Without help.”

“Mom, don’t start with this.”

“Don’t start with what, Joan? I’m not a child, no matter how you treat me. I don’t need someone to drive Miss Daisy over here. No offense, Joan.” The second “Joan” was directed at me. After thirty-two years of being her granddaughter, my grandmother still called me by my mother’s name ninety percent of the time. But she had been doing that since she was in her fifties, so that alone wasn’t a great indicator of declining mental agility.

I turned to my parents. “Would I have to share a room with her?”

“And what’s so wrong with sharing a room with me?” I exchanged a look with Amy, who was trying not to laugh. My grandmother had absolutely no sense of modesty left. When she got a medical alert button, she raised her shirt to show it to us rather than pulling it out of her shirt. Without a bra on.

“No.” My dad ignored my grandmother completely. “Your own room. Just get her to the airport, on the airplane, and to the hotel, then the reverse after the wedding.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Deal,” I said, relief sweeping over me as I imagined the numbers on my credit card bill rolling backward. Besides, it would make great material for my blog.

“I didn’t agree to this deal,” my grandmother said, struggling to rise from the table.

“Do you need some help?” I asked her. She gave me a sharp look, but sat back down in her chair. “It’ll be good bonding time.”

“If we rent a car there, I’m driving,” she said gruffly.

“There’s a shuttle from the airport,” my father said immediately. “You’re not driving in Mexico.”

“You shouldn’t even be driving here,” my mother added.

Grandma looked back at me. “Better to go with you than with them,” she conceded.

I nodded to my parents and my mother’s shoulders sagged slightly in relief, making me realize that I hadn’t been the one they were worried about convincing in this deal. But Grandma and I had always done better together than my mother and I had. Or than she and my mother had, for that matter. Yes, the dynamic changed as we both got older and I didn’t visit or call as often as I should, but my grandmother had always proven an ally against my mother when I needed one. And in my teen years in particular, I had needed one.

“We’ll have fun,” I assured her, and my mother looked at me gratefully.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


I had finally stopped looking everywhere for Alex, brushing off the several run-ins as actual coincidence, when Taylor greeted me excitedly at Starbucks a couple of weeks later.

“He left you another note,” she said when I reached the counter. I knew I should give up the morning lattes in favor of coffee at the office to save money, but it was a tough habit to break. Besides, my parents’ offer to pay for my trip to Mexico had bought me enough of a financial reprieve that I could still justify the coffee. And the blog post I had written about dress shopping with Caryn and the wicked bridesmaids of the west had generated enough money for a week’s worth of coffee and gotten me my first two comments. Okay, one of them was spam, but clicks were clicks.

And maybe, just maybe, a little, tiny piece of me was hoping for exactly this. “I’m not sure what it means, but I think he’s asking you out.”

I rolled my eyes at her and went to grab my coffee. So I know what dinner gets me, but what do I get with lunch?

Ugh, why does he have to be so cute about this?

“Can I leave him one back?” I asked. The line was insanely long and I didn’t want to wait in it again. The guy at the front gave me an irritated look.

Taylor looked at the line and nodded. “It’s on the house.” She handed me a coffee sleeve and the Sharpie.

My friendship . . . I wrote back. I started to hand it to Taylor, but I snatched it back at the last second and uncapped the Sharpie again. Text me if that sounds good, and I wrote my phone number.

If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t think I would hear from him. No guy wants to be told he’s in the friend zone. It’s a death sentence if you’re actually interested, despite what When Harry Met Sally would have you believe.

But as I was walking to my apartment from the Metro that evening, I got a text message. Hey new friend, it said.

I smiled. Do you get an afternoon coffee too or did you go to Starbucks just to see what I’d replied?

The latter. I was curious.

Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait a solid twenty-four hours before you text someone the first time?

Why? We’re friends. I don’t have to play stupid games.

Good point.

So lunch? Tomorrow?

Yeah, I replied, marveling at this strange new thing I had found, where I didn’t need to play games and friendship was pre-established as being all that was on the table with a guy. That sounds great.