Page 37 of Someone Like Me
Sure, the first time I saw her across both our yards, she was dressed in similar tights and a tank. But this is up close. This is just feet from me. And, this time, she’s also aiming that smile my way.
Grandma Quincy is the one who lets her in since I’ve insisted on holding the tongs and fishing jars and lids out of boiling water.
Grandma invites Evie in before joining me at the stove and handing over another jar to be sterilized. As she does, she stretches up on her tiptoes, aiming her mouth toward my ear.
“You might have more than two people in your fan club,” she whispers.
CHAPTER TEN
EVIE
The sight of Drew Moroux dressed in an apron and oven mitts, bearing a pair of tongs has officially made my day. And it has not been the greatest day.
Mom texted me this morning asking if I knew why Tori was talking about moving out. Of course, I knew nothing about it since she hasn’t spoken to me in days. I’ve given Tori her space, but as soon as I read this, I confronted her.
It did not go well.
And then, naturally, Drake was in my class. Before we got started, he made a big show of saying what a great time he had last night. In front of all my students. But when he cornered me afterward, he pelted me with questions about “that Neanderthal who showed up at my door last night.”
Did he really just get out of prison?
Is he a stalker?
Is he a sex offender?
I only managed to get out of there when I told him I had plans with a friend. I just didn’t tell him who the friend was.
But as soon as I see Drew like this in his grandmother’s kitchen, I forget all of the crap from this morning.
“Andrew’s helping me pickle okra,” Mrs. Vivian says, wearing a proud smile. Drew’s face is flushed, and I’m not sure if it’s from his proximity to boiling water or if he’s just a tad embarrassed to be seen like this. “Would you like to help?”
I take another look at Drew’s blush and know there is just one answer to this question. “Absolutely!”
Mrs. Vivian snatches another apron off the hook by her pantry door, and before I know it, I’ve washed my hands three times as instructed, and she’s walking me through the assembly of pickling brine. I measure out a concoction of salt, water, and vinegar into a waiting soup pot on her stove.
Meanwhile, Drew is tasked with the job of filling eight Mason jars with chilies, mustard seeds, sprigs of dill, and, finally, okra pods.
“Put the first one in stem down,” Mrs. Vivian tells Drew. “Then the next one goes in tip down. And then stem down and so on.”
“I got it, Grandma,” he responds softly, grasping the first okra from the colander on her counter.
“Try not to let your fingers touch the mouth of the jar.”
“Grandma, my hands have never been this clean,” he says. “It’ll be okay.”
“You want to get botulism?” she asks, making both of us laugh.
“No,” he answers on a chuckle.
“Then don’t let your fingers touch the jar.”
Drew doesn’t take his eyes from the task. It’s like watching a game of Operation. Only a whole lot better. I love Drew Moroux’s hands. That’s an established fact at this point. They’re huge and rough and beautiful.
“There,” he says, stepping back from the first jar and effectively ending my hand-gazing trance. “Pour it on.”
Mrs. Vivian leans forward, frowning over her glasses, to inspect his work. She leans back, facing at me with a nod. “Pour it on. Just be careful not to burn yourself.”
By now, my brine has come to a boil, so I dip the ladle in and carefully empty it into the jar. Another ladleful brings the liquid to about an inch below the glass threads.
