Brady Remington Landed Me in Jail

When Brady's door slammed shut, I glanced back and watched as he stuffed his hands in his jeans. He had a shirt on now as he strolled to where my grandfather was bent over with a poking stick in hand and a gnome to torment. As the two started to converse I sighed, ducked my head, and reached to open the screen door.

Viola called from the kitchen, "Well, at least you had the nerve to walk through the main door and not crawl back through your window. I'm supposed to thank you?"

My grandmother arched an eyebrow and lifted her potato peeler. "I love Brady. I want that to be said, but you hear me—if I come into your room again and have a heart attack when I find that you're not there—I will use this peeler on his hide."

"Okay."

"And another thing…" Viola skimmed a hand through her greying hair pulled back in a ponytail. "I talked to Sharon and she said that boy did not have supper last night. I know you two have breakfast, but I didn't see it so I don't count it. You call him in here and we're all going to sit down for a good meal."

I nodded promptly and spun on my heel. Brady was on his haunches, studying whatever my grandfather was poking at. Neil would always poke around those weeds by the gnome. I was thankful for a moment that no matter what occurred, some things never changed.

Viola yelled behind me, "And then later tonight, you can explain to me why Kid Stephens called this morning."

"What?" I whirled back around.

She pushed the bowl of half-peeled potatoes away and skimmed a hand down her red pressed shirt. "That boy's nice and all, but I don't want you spending time with him."

"Wait a minute—Kid Stephens called here?"

"Hmm mmm," she harrumphed as she turned to place the bowl in the sink.

"And he wanted to talk to me?"

"Hmmm mmm." She rinsed off the potatoes.

"Why?"

"Why do boys usually call girls?"

I was floored. I was beyond—no, I was just clueless. "I have no idea."

"Rayna." My grandmother turned and rested against the kitchen counter. She assessed me, a variety of expressions flashed across her blue, clear, and wrinkle-free eyes. Viola would never need Botox. Not that she'd use it if she had the thought to, but my grandmother was a beautiful woman. One of those classic beautiful types and she scared the living daylights out of me.

"What?" I shifted uncomfortably.

There it was. All those different expressions again: approval, disapproval, disappointment, and impatience. "One day a boy is going to call this phone and he's going to ask for you. I'll admit that I started to think that day would never come. And now that it has I'm going to tell you a part of me rejoices and a part of me wants to handcuff you inside your room. I do not want you spending time with Kid Stephens."

Rejoice? Handcuff?

My grandmother looked pale, more pale than usual, but it could've been the potatoes. She hated peeling potatoes.

Viola waved her hand in the air. "Get Brady in here. Food's ready."

She turned her back before I moved from the doorway. My grandmother was sixty-three, but she'd live till she was in her hundreds.

"Grandma…" I started.

"What?" She glanced over her shoulder.

Here it was. Do I confess or not? What do I say? I wasn't dumb. I know that she worried Kid Stephens was interested in me in a romantic way, but I also knew the only reason she didn't approve was because of his father. The joke was on her because Kid would never be interested in someone like me. He liked girls like Clarissa. If she was that worried about Kid, I had no idea how she'd react to the idea of Brady.

I bailed. "Nothing."

"You sure?" She studied me again.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm just tired."

"Okay. Go get your boy," she shooed.

As I moved back through the living room, I scowled. He wasn't my boy. I wasn't his girl. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. Then I looked up and my hand halted before it touched the screen door. Brady tipped his head back and laughed at something Neil had said. And then it happened—my grandfather patted his shoulder in approval.

Warmth flooded me and I choked back tears. It didn't mean a thing. It wasn't a secret that my grandparents adored Brady. I was just emotional. That's all it was. I ignored my trembling hand and scratchy throat when I opened the door. "Brady! Breakfast!"

His eyes snapped to mine. I felt my heart pound—it was suddenly so loud that I almost couldn't hear Brady when he called back, "Sweet! I call baby chair."

I rolled my eyes.