“I’ll give Grace your best.”
“Tell her I’ll see her soon.” Two weeks.
I clicked over, hitting “speaker,” and rested the phone on the counter as I took ingredients out for dinner.
“Well, I thought you might stand me up,” Mom answered, her accent drawing out the final word.
“I’m three minutes late, Mom. That’s hardly being stood up. Besides, when have I ever stood you up to cook Sunday dinner?”
“Never. That’s why you’re my favorite son.”
That almost made me smile. “I’m your only son.”
“Well, that secures your position in my heart.”
“Is that Gray?” Mia asked in the background.
“It is,” Mom answered.
“Hey, Mia,” I said as I started to trim the chicken.
“Dustin Marley asked me to prom!” she squeaked.
“Dustin Marley is like five years old, and so are you, for that matter,” I answered, wondering if I’d need to bury the body of a teenage boy in a couple weeks when I went home. Eighteen-year-old girls shouldn’t be going to prom. Ever.
“Oh, whatever. I’m off to go dress shopping with Parker. I miss you, Gray!”
“Tell Parker nothing above the knee,” I replied. “She may be twenty-one, but you’re not.”
Mom burst into laughter. “He’s right. Your sister has horrid taste, Mia. Text me a picture before you so much as think of buying a dress.”
“Yes, Mama,” she sang as her voice faded.
“She’s eighteen.” I sighed, filleting the chicken.
“Tell me about it. Your father’s been fending the boys off for years, and you know she’s his baby. He’s been polishing the shotgun since she told him. I’m mixing bread crumbs, where are you at?”
“Finishing the last fillet. I didn’t get them thin enough last time.”
“Take your time, no one likes dry chicken. I was thinking maybe we’d try coq au vin next week?”
I washed my hands, thinking over the dish. “That takes a little longer, but I think it’s doable. Or maybe we could make brownies?”
“You’re not getting that recipe out of me, Grayson Masters.”
“It was worth the try.” Those brownies were epic.
“Keep trying. Maybe when you’re in for your birthday we could make them for a party—”
“No,” I snapped, and she sucked in her breath. Shit. “I’m sorry, Mom, but you know how I feel about that.”
Oil sizzled in the background. She’d started browning her breaded fillets. I turned up the heat on the stove, not far behind.
“I know, Grayson. I just thought it’s been five years, maybe something had changed.”
“It hasn’t,” I answered, careful to keep my tone soft.
The sounds of frying chicken popped between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll fill you in on the gossip.”