headed?” Brooks politely inquires, waiting while Nan pulls an answer out of her ass, avoiding my penetrating gaze.
She hesitates a split second. “Gardening club.”
His brows go up like I knew they would. “They have gardening clubs in the city?”
Not ones she’d be a member of, I want to grumble.
“Where do you even put the flowers? Rooftops? It’s all concrete!” He’s genuinely perplexed, and I wish he would stop the inquisition so he doesn’t expose her lie.
That would be more embarrassing.
“Did I say gardening club?” Nan doesn’t even have the courtesy to look abashed. “I meant I have a meeting at the children’s wing of the new hospital. I’m on the board and there’s a staff meeting this afternoon. If I want to make it across town in traffic, I should leave now.”
She hasn’t even waited for the food to arrive before going through with her ruse, probably paid for the entire meal well in advance and gave the server instructions for Brooks and me to have carte blanche—most likely even instructed the staff to keep the alcohol flowing.
As if he and I need alcohol to enjoy each other’s company. As if he needs alcohol to find me attractive.
Beer goggles in the middle of the day, Nan? Please.
“Make bad decisions!” She tosses a wave over her shoulder, not glancing back once.
“Did she just say make good decisions, or did she say…” He scratches the top of his head, confused.
I sip my wine. “Oh you heard her correctly. She most definitely told us to make bad decisions.”
Typical.
“Was she always like this?”
“Pretty much—as far back as I can remember, she’s been outrageous as far as grandmothers go. It used to drive my mom crazy.”
“She’s your dad’s mom?”
“Yup.” I guzzle another mouthful, the crisp wine going down sweet and smooth. “My mom resented her when I was growing up because Nan was always too involved in our raising. But who could blame Nan? My mother worked a ton and wasn’t around much, so someone had to do it.”
My parents met in college, and to prove she wasn’t just after his family’s money, my mother insisted on holding a job the entire time they were married, working long hours and climbing the corporate ladder in an entirely different industry.
It escaped no one’s notice that Mom retained the Margolis last name long after their divorce—even keeping it through her second marriage.
The marriage? Lasted until I was in my teens, but by that point, Nan had completely inserted herself as a nurturing, parental constant in my life.
Dad is a workaholic.
Mom is a workaholic.
Grandpa is a workaholic.
My brother and I had Nan to keep things normal. The Margolis version of normal, that is.
“She looks super conservative in those suits of hers.”
“It’s a lie,” I pointedly tell him as I select a piece of bread from the basket, pull it into pieces, and drag one through olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette.
“I can see that now.”
“It’s all a front so she can be inappropriate and obnoxious and no one suspects her of any wrongdoing.” Except maybe my grandfather, who loves every bit of her nonsense.
Which is the way it should be when you love someone unconditionally, like they do.
Ride or die, till death do they part.
Nan will go down kicking and screaming in her bouclé suits and silver jewelry specifically chosen to match her hair.
“You look just like her. It’s kind of freaky-deaky.”
This gives me pause. No one has ever told me that before. “Really?”
“If she wasn’t so much older, I’d think she was your mom. Except for the hair.”
I swirl my bread in oil, toying with it. “I actually have naturally blonde hair. Had. Have—whatever, I dye it.”
Brooks is shocked by this revelation. “Why?”
I shrug but don’t bite the bread in my hands. “To set myself apart. To be taken more seriously at work?”
There. I said it.
Confessions of a trust fund baby: to be taken more seriously in the workplace, change your physical appearance to appear less airheaded. Platinum blonde beauties garner way too much attention of the wrong variety.
“I want people to hear me, not just see me. So, when I first got the job out of college, I dyed my hair this color, and I’ve kept it this way since.”
A rich brown, darker at the top than at the ends, the ombre phase I went through still going strong. I love my hair.
“So you dye your eyebrows, too?”
I nod. “Yup.”
Brooks’ eyes betray him, almost straying to my lap.