Page 75 of The Way I Hate Him
Her expression eases, and she shifts in her seat, puffing her chest. “Look at you flattering me, even on my deathbed.”
“You’re not on your deathbed, Gran.”
“I broke my hip. That means I’m about to die. It happens to all the old people, so if you would please tell me who this person is so I can die in peace, I’d appreciate it.”
Christ.
I scratch the side of my jaw. “It’s complicated. I don’t know how I feel about her, okay? So don’t get all weird on me, and I swear, Gran, if you say anything, I might not come visit you on your deathbed.”
She pokes me with her cane right in the quad, and fuck, it hurts.
“Ouch,” I say, rubbing the spot.
“Don’t you dare threaten me about my deathbed.”
“You know what I mean. I need this to stay between us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s highly sensitive, and you know this town. The minute someone says anything, it spreads like wildfire, especially with the Peach Society.”
“I think you’re overthinking it, but sure, this will stay between us. I can keep a secret like the best of them. Remember when you puked right before you went out on stage for the first time to perform at Five Six Seven Eight? I didn’t tell anyone, did I?”
“You didn’t. You just kicked the puke under the curtain and told no one, only for Ethel to find it later and scream bloody murder.”
“Served her right. She deliberately wore pink that day because she knew I was wearing pink and then flirted with Rodney right in front of me. Too bad for her, he didn’t find her flamboyancy the least bit attractive. No one constantly wants boa feathers flying in their face. Not to mention, he knew she was only interested in women and was using him as a tool.”
“I think we might have gotten slightly off topic,” I say.
“I don’t like that woman.” Gran crosses her arms over her chest and stares out the window. “She has perfectly working hips, and I bet she’s going to throw that in my face. That’s what happens when you’re loose in the hips, always spreading your legs—”
“Okay, Gran,” I say uncomfortably.
“You have loose hips when you’re older.” Okay, I guess we’re not done here. “But I was a celibate angel for many years. So many years that I sneezed once, and a dustball flew into my underwear.” Fucking Christ. “And do you know how humbling that is, Hayes? To find a dustball in your underwear?”
Lips pulled tight, I slowly nod and squeak, “Quite humbling.”
“Exactly. And what do I get for being a born-again Virgin Mary? A broken hip that’s going to kill me in six months. And there’s Ethel, kick-ball-changing down the boardwalk with her loose, whore hips.” She waves her fist toward the window out of pure agony. “Life is not fair.”
And I think we might be done with the conversation about me, thankfully. I’ll take her dustball talk over discussing Hattie any day. Because I still don’t know what’s going on with that, how I feel, and what the hell I’m doing, so telling Gran would honestly not make any sense.
“And do you know what else bothers me about that woman besides her whore hips?” Gran continues.
This will be one hell of a rant, so I might as well get comfortable. I snag a cookie from the plate, lean back in my chair, and say, “What else do you not like, Gran?”
* * *
Christ,I’m worn out.
Between Gran hating on Ethel to her complaining about the boardwalk planks and how they’re not walker friendly—something I agreed to—and the agony of hearing what songs she wants me to sing at her funeral when she dies in six months—Dream A Little Dream Of Me—I’m exhausted.
I took my car because I knew Hattie wasn’t going anywhere, so I parked it in front of the driveway and headed into the house through the front door. I toss my wallet on the entryway table, and just as I look up to head to the kitchen, I stop. Hattie’s walking into the house through the sliding glass door, wearing a tiny yellow bikini.
She’s fine as fuck.
Small triangles cover her small tits, and thin straps of her bottoms arch over her slim hips. The fabric’s so thin that I’m not sure how it stays in place. Her toned body is basically on full display. The wordwantrushes through my mind.
When she glances up and sees me, a large smile spreads across her face as she says, “I’m drunk.” And she throws her arms up as if we’re supposed to celebrate this accomplishment. “I’m so, so drunk.” She giggles and moves to the kitchen. “Want to get drunk with us?”
