Maybe This Time(16)

“Who?” I knew exactly who she was talking about so I didn’t know why I was putting on an act.

“Broad shoulders, great hair, and handsome as all get-out, that’s who.”

“Mom, he’s seventeen.”

“I wasn’t lookin’ to date him, child. I just asked who he was while appreciating his finer qualities.”

“That’s Jett’s son.”

She tilted her head and looked back at me. “Jett has a son? How come you didn’t tell me about him before?”

“Didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. That means one of two things: You like him or you hate him.”

“Or maybe I just don’t think about him at all.”

“Nope. Which one is it?”

“Neither, Mom. Can we eat now?”

Suddenly, Gloria and her daughter were singing, and I silently thanked them for the interruption.

My mom moved down the row of dishes, taking a little bit of each. “Ugh,” she said after a moment. “Why does Caroline still let them sing at this?”

“Mom. Shh.” They actually sounded good. They’d gotten better.

“I was quiet,” she whispered. “It’s just I’ve been puttin’ up with Gloria since high school. That woman can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Do you know she sang the national anthem at nearly every football game? And you thought I liked attention.”

“I never said that,” I mumbled.

“Here, hold this,” she said, handing me her plate.

“Why?”

The song ended and my mom marched straight up to Gloria. By the time I realized what she was doing, I had to scramble to find a place to set our plates.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mom said into the microphone. “How y’all doin’ today?”

There was only one whoop back. I cut through tables, heading toward her.

“I’d like to sing you a song now called ‘Jesus Take the Wheel’ by the lovely Carrie Underw—”

I snatched the microphone from her hand. “She’s just kidding. My mom, isn’t she funny? Enjoy your brunch, ladies. Can we give a hand for this lovely spread provided by Mr. Williams and Jett Hart?”

I turned off the microphone to a smattering of applause.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, it was fun,” Mom said, and left me holding the microphone.

Micah appeared at my side. “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing my arm. “You smoothed it over.”

“You think?” I asked, grateful for her assurance even if I knew she was lying through her teeth.

“It’s all good. Do you want me to hide that somewhere?” She nodded toward the microphone.

I handed it to her. “Yes, please.”

“And you should probably go rescue Andrew.”

“What?” My head whipped over to see my mom holding her plate and heading straight for Andrew.

“Mom!” I called. “Our table is over here.”

She didn’t listen. She tromped across the grass, me trailing behind, and paused in front of him.

“Young man,” Mom said to Andrew, “follow me.”

And he did.





If I had to hear my mom laugh at some stupid thing Andrew said one more time, I was going to lose it. After sitting down with my mom at our table, Andrew had already shown her several scrolls’ worth of pictures (including the one of me giving him the look that I imagined I directed at him all the time), and they were now discussing the food. It was mostly my mom asking, “And what’s in this?” and pointing to things on her plate. He had the standard mocking twinkle in his eye, so even though he was being polite, overly polite, I knew he was silently judging my mom.

I noticed Caroline walking over to where the microphone had been. She looked around, probably for the microphone that Micah had hidden. Then she cleared her throat and said loudly, “I have a game for y’all to play!”

I thought I was in charge of the game. I started to stand up and Caroline waved her hand at me as though she anticipated my reaction.

“I want all the mothers and daughters to play it.” That was directed at me. “You know what’s on the line: Barbecue.”

“Barbecue?” Andrew asked as Caroline began handing out the yellow paper and pens.

“Hank’s Barbecue,” Mom answered. “The best barbecue in town.”

“The only barbecue in town,” I said.

“Which makes it the best,” Andrew said.

“Exactly,” Mom agreed with a smile. I tried not to let out a huff. How was Andrew winning over every person in my life?

“You should try my dad’s barbecue,” Andrew said.

“I’d like to try your dad’s barbecue, honey,” she said.

Andrew raised his eyebrows at me.

“Mom,” I said darkly.

“What? It was a statement. If it’s as good as his fancy eggs, then I’m sure I’ll like it.” She waved her fork over the quiche she had barely touched.

“Don’t they have quiche at the diner, Ms. Evans?” Andrew asked.

“Call me Larissa. And, no, they do not. The diner specializes in greasy eggs and lots of added cheese.”