Touch (Denazen #1)(94)

I stand there, trying the name out and hating it, when Grandma comes around the corner and bumps into me. “Dylan!” she yelps, her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I was coming to get you.”

“I’m here.”

Guilt rings her eyes. “Yes. So I see. Well…”

She takes my hand and pulls me into the kitchen. “Look who I nearly knocked over,” she says to the weather-beaten man sitting at the table. “Dylan, this is your grandfather.”

He’s a solid guy with only a few gray hairs. Where’s the jolly smile? The arthritic hands? There’s no doubt this guy has tough skin and even tougher muscles. He could lay me out with one well-placed slap. Our eyes meet. I nod. He nods back, and his intense stare tells me he’s comparing.

When Grandma sidles closer, balancing three glasses filled with ice, he mutters, “Now that I think about it, the last one isn’t it.”

I grab the seat across the table from him and sit. Showing disinterest, I fill my plate and say, “Then how about that Donny guy?”

Grandma and Grandpa’s eyes lock before Grandma sits. She spreads her napkin in her lap, flattening it over and over again with her palms. “You heard?”

“Yeah. Sounds like Mom got around.”

Pain slices through Grandma’s eyes before she covers it up. “She was…a challenge.”

By what I just heard, that’s the understatement of the year. “Did you ever think about using a chastity belt?”

“I thought of hog-tying her in the attic,” Grandpa says, “but I was told that’s illegal.”

Grandma gives him a be quiet glare. What? he mouths.

She turns to me. “Dylan, you weren’t meant to hear what we said. I’m sorry. We should have—”

“Mom’s mom. I learned that a long time ago. I can’t name you all the uncles she’s introduced to me. I’ve got a very warped sense of family now, and more than my share of abandonment issues.”

Grandma sighs, and Grandpa places his hand over hers. I don’t know why I said anything. It was cruel.

“Well,” Grandma whispers, “let’s eat.”

Before I can react, they each grab my hand. When I’m about to pull away, they bow their heads, and Grandpa prays. I don’t know what to do. I glance from one to the other, and quickly look away when they say “amen.” My hands are freed, and I feel the need to wipe them clean. No one, not even Mom, touches me without my permission.

“So, Dylan,” Grandpa’s voice booms, “you like sheep?”

I nearly choke on my pot roast. I’ve heard all the jokes about sheep herders and ewes. I toss him a horrified look. “No. I like girls.”

Obviously he’s heard the jokes, too, because he lets loose a big laugh. “That’s a huge weight off my mind.”

“George,” Grandma says in a firm voice. She doesn’t look at me, but directs her words my way. “What your grandpa means is that he would like you to go out with him and the sheep.”

The devil in me flares to life. “Really, Grandma. I only go out with girls.”

Grandpa coughs on his milk, and I find it hard not to laugh, too.

“Honestly,” Grandma snaps. “The both of you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

I force down my disrespectful nature, and Grandpa clears his throat. “Tell you what, Dylan, tomorrow you can come out with me and see what it’s like to run a sheep ranch.”

“Sounds…fun.” I ask Grandma flatly, “Do I have a choice?”

“No. I need to talk to your mother. Besides, it’s a perfect time for you and your grandfather to get to know each other better.”

“You’re talking male bonding, aren’t you?” I shake my head. “Is there beer involved?”

The pair slant worried glances at each other.

Oops. I sit back and give them the smile that always gets me out of trouble. Always. “I’m kidding.”

Grandpa stares bullets at me. “Sounds like there’s a bit of a wicked streak in you, Dylan.”

My smile cracks just a hair. The old guy isn’t falling for it. Grandma isn’t that impressed, either. Maybe there’s a genetic flaw that blocks the full potential of my smile with these two? I clear my throat. “Uh, no, sir. I’m wicked-free.”

He grunts, stares a little longer than what makes me comfortable, and then returns to eating his food.

“What are your interests, Dylan?” Grandma asks, fishing for who I am.

How can I tell her when I’m not even sure? Rarely do people ask, and even more rarely do I offer insight. “Long-boarding. Music. You know, the usual stuff.”

Grandpa pauses, his fork poised near his mouth. “Sports?”

“Sure.” Virtual over actual, but no sense in putting the “today’s lazy youth” card on the table. Besides, it feels more natural to steer the conversation toward them and the ranch. “So this is a sheep ranch, huh?”

I’m bored before Grandma takes her next breath. I pretend to pay attention, and instead, wonder how I’m going to survive this encounter. As I plan what classes I’ll need in order to graduate, I hear the words “rare,” “ancient breed,” and “soy.”

A guy blanks out for half a second, and suddenly, we’re talking about soy? They’re not the kind of people who drink soy milk and eat tofu, I hope. Is this my last real meal before they bring out the granola?