Page 38 of Someone Like Me
“Good. That’s enough,” Mrs. Vivian says. “Now, Andrew, without touching the inside of the lid, place it on top and screw it on tight.”
He follows her instructions, and I delight in watching those hands grip down on the jar and lid. “One down,” Drew says, setting the freshly sealed preserves on the counter. “Seven to go.”
Mrs. Vivian watches us closely while we complete the second jar, but this time she says nothing. No warnings about bacteria or burns. When this one is complete, she shuffles back from us.
“I think you two have got the hang of this. Would y’all mind if I go put my feet up for a few minutes?”
At this, Drew turns to face her. “You feeling okay, Grandma?” His forehead is creased with concern.
“Just a little tired, love,” she says, batting him away. “Glad for your help in here.”
His frown deepens as he watches her waddle out of the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” I whisper when I’m sure she’s out of earshot.
Drew’s eyes cut to mine. I watch his chest fill and then he lets go a breath. “I’m just worried about her.”
“She’s slowing down,” I say, “but she’s in great shape. I see her in that garden almost every day. Not many people her age could work that hard.”
“You think?”
I nod.
Drew moves back to the empty Mason jars, shaking his head as though trying to shed worry. “I guess it’s just because it’s all catching up with me,” he says, reaching for the jar of mustard seeds. “After being gone for so long, I mean.”
It must be so strange for him, I realize, coming back to a life he left for such a long time. “I can only imagine,” I say softly.
I don’t want to pry or make him feel like he’s some sort of curiosity, but even as stoic as he is, I think Drew Moroux needs someone to talk to. I bite my lip, but then I remember he trusted me enough last night to talk about his depression. That’s not small.
“I-I hope you’ve figured out by now,” I begin, my voice tentative and low. “That you can say whatever’s on your mind, and you won’t get any judgment from me.”
He’s midway through stuffing the jar with dill, and his gaze slides over to mine. He doesn’t look worried anymore. Instead, he looks kind of amused. “No judgement, huh? This from the woman who burst out laughing at the mention of my birthday.”
A giggle escapes me before I can lock it down. “That’s different,” I defend, but I’m sure I’m blushing. “That’s not personal stuff.”
He grabs a chili and tosses it into the jar. “I know, Guppy.”
I make a face. “Oh, we’re still doing that? It’s so yesterday.”
Drew laughs a big, window-rattling laugh. “Oh, yeah,” he says, chuckling. “We’re still doing that.”
While he loads the jar with okra pods, I wrack my brain for an equally horrible nickname for him. “Let’s see,” I muse aloud. “Taurus… Bull… There’s that story about Ferdinand. I could call you Ferdi—”
“Hell, no.”
“No, really. Don’t dismiss it out of hand,” I urge, trying not to laugh. “He has lots of friends, and I think he likes flowers.” And then I do laugh because the thought of Drew sniffing flower blossoms is almost as cute as Drew in an apron stuffing okra in a jar for his grandmother.
He gives me a mock-menacing frown and pushes the prepared jar to me. “Pour.”
I scoop a ladleful from the simmering pot. “Whatever you say, Ferdi.” It’s the sound of his smothered laugh that sets me off again. But this time, I’m pouring boiling brine with one hand and steadying the base of the jar with the other. And as I laugh, brine sloshes over the mouth of the jar and onto my hand.
“Ow! Shit!” I scream, leap back, and spill the rest of brine on the counter and the floor.
“Evie! Jesus!”
“Ow! Ouch!” I hop around, flapping my hand before Drew grabs me by the elbow and hauls me to the sink. He turns on the faucet and jerks my hand under the cold stream. I hiss with relief, but it still burns like hellfire.
“Shit, Evie,” Drew mutters, frowning at the burn. The little patch of flesh between my left thumb and forefinger is already an angry red. I can feel my pulse in my hand, and even with the flush of cold water, the heat compounds with each heartbeat.
