Bet on It (41)

Sure, her encounter with Walker had probably been tame by other people’s standards, but it was the hottest thing she’d ever done. Spontaneous dick riding in the back seat of her car? Aja of a few weeks ago would have laughed in the face of the Aja of today if she’d been fed that story. It had happened though. The experience was real, and she could hardly fucking believe it.

“It was the best sex I’ve ever had, Niecy.” Aja put a hand to her chest to calm the fluttering. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back after this.”

“Why do you have to? You can’t just call him up again?”

Aja sighed. There was the rub. She didn’t know where the hell she and Walker stood. She felt certain that they weren’t together, but uncertain about everything else. Was he going to call her in the morning? When they saw each other on Wednesday, were they supposed to behave like they hadn’t gotten hot and heavy? Were their Monday-night bingo games still on? Perhaps they should have discussed all of that before they’d fallen into bed—or back seat, rather.

Now she was left with warring emotions. Elation for what had happened and apprehension for what was to come. She was incredibly familiar with the latter. Sometimes the anxiety even felt comfortable when she was faced with the parts of life that she found more difficult. She had no idea what to do with the elation. Tuck it away? Fold it into some hidden place in her head until she needed it most? Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be feeling it at all. It was highly likely that Walker was lying in bed right now, satisfied and content with the state of his orgasm without any of the extra shit. She knew that was a big possibility, and she desperately didn’t want it to be.

“I didn’t get his number,” Aja lied, listening as her best friend cackled. “But that’s all right—on to the next one, right?”

That was a lie too. She had no other men on her roster, nor the desire to add any. But Reniece didn’t need to know that. Aja didn’t feel like explaining feelings that she hadn’t entirely worked through yet. She didn’t feel like hearing the pity or the lecture. This was just for her to wallow in. Maybe once it was over, when he was gone and she was forgotten, she’d cry in her best friend’s lap. Not now though. Now she needed to shower to wash his scent off so she wouldn’t stay up all night trying to catch traces of it on her skin.

“I have to go,” she rushed out. “It’s late and I have to work in the morning, but I wanted to tell you. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“I am! I’m glad you had a good time, and I’m happy you told me. I like knowing what’s going on in your life.”

“When it’s not so fucking sad…”

“Even when it is.”

Both of them let out shaky breaths, and Reniece, probably sensing that Aja was at the end of her emotional rope, wrapped things up.

“All right let me get off this phone and get back to my man then. Tyson always gets horny after the rose ceremony,” she whispered. “Maybe I can do some dick riding of my own.”

“Reniece, gross. What the fuck?”





Chapter 13


About a year or so after moving into Gram’s, he’d come home from school crying about how the D.A.R.E program lady had told him that the cigarettes Gram smoked could kill her. He’d been terrified. Neither of them knew where his father was at any given time, and they had very little else by the way of family. She’d been the only person he’d had—in certain ways, she still was—and because of that, he’d refused to lose her to something as silly as those “cancer sticks.”

It had taken him months to convince her to quit smoking. With enough crying and begging and home-based book reports about the dangerous long-term effects, he’s persuaded her to give it up. But May Abbott had been smoking since she was twelve, and kicking a habit that deep was not an easy feat. So she’d taken up cooking to distract herself. She’d gathered all of her mother’s old cookbooks from the crawl space above the stairs and set her heart on making everything in them.

Walker had been forced to eat all manner of dry chicken and overcooked beef. Their kitchen saw a bevy of mushy pasta and horrendous cream-based sauces for months. But she got better over time—so good that he’d started looking forward to eating dinner at home. He’d braved it all, sometimes with a sore stomach, and he’d come out the other side with a nonsmoking grandmother and a delicious meal every day.

His absolute favorite was her French toast. She didn’t use any fancy brioche, just thick-sliced white bread. She waited until the bread was a little stale and hard enough that the milk and eggs and cinnamon stuck to it perfectly. And then she fried it up in the cast-iron skillet until each slice was dark and crispy along the crusts and golden brown in the middle. Finished simply with a dusting of powdered sugar and a side of maple syrup, it was the perfect breakfast. He didn’t need anything else either. No eggs or bacon or sausage; he was always perfectly satisfied with the toast.

Walker came downstairs that Tuesday morning, hoping to find something to throw together for them to eat, only to find Gram already in front of the stove. He was stumped silent for a few moments, standing in the doorway as he watched her struggle to whisk milk and eggs together.

“Uhh…” His jaw flapped. “Gram, what are you doing?”