Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her hand falls to my arm. Her palm is so small it barely covers half my bicep. We both look at the point of contact. I force a swallow down my parched throat, feeling the weight of her hand all the way down to my groin. My thighs ache, my balls burn, every piece of my body practically begging for more.

  “I’ll be sorry if you move your hand,” I utter.

  Naturally, she does.

  “No,” I continue, clearing my throat, “she didn’t have a favorite. Not really. Blaire got better Christmas presents growing up because she was the only girl. Machlan had bigger birthday parties because his birthday was in December and Mom was worried it would get lost in the mix with Christmas and all that. They paid for my college and gave Crank to Walker. So, I guess I never really felt that way.” Glancing at her again, I decide to press. “Does yours?”

  “It’s a fact my mom prefers my sister over me.”

  “I need to meet your sister,” I mumble.

  She smacks my arm. “Lance!”

  Chuckling, I rub the spot she just marred. “I was kidding.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “I was,” I insist, looking at her until she looks at me. “I know I’m just your friendly co-worker and ride home from bad dates, and that you get off to me every night—Ow!” I yelp as she smacks me again. “Truth hurts.”

  “So do lies. Wanna see?” she asks, making a fist.

  “I was going to finish that by saying I can’t imagine a mother being anything but proud of someone like you.”

  She makes a face like she might cry. It’s not real, it’s totally put on, but I love it.

  “Think about it,” I say. “You moved out on your own, got a real job, and I bet you pay your own bills.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “And,” I say, nudging her shoulder, “you’re pretty as hell, smart, and sweet when you want to be. Your mother must be an idiot.”

  “Lance Gibson, that was nice. Thank you.”

  “All truth, Ms. Malarkey. All truth. Even the parts you deny.” Listening to her giggle fill up my car is the best thing I’ve heard all day. “So your mom is a jerk. Do we like your sister?”

  “No. Big. Fat. No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “We don’t like Chrissy.”

  “Got it. Do we have a dad we like? Brother? Grandma? Aunt?”

  Her head rests on the seat angled a little to the side. She looks perfectly content in the seat of my car. It’s hard not to pull over and, as weird as it is to acknowledge it, I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to hear what she has to say. And then fuck her. Hard.

  It’s a thin, dangerous line and my toes are edging it.

  “My parents are divorced and my dad has some trophy wife up in New Hampshire. I haven’t seen him in years. No aunts, no brothers. Grandma Betsy was amazing, though,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. Her chin drops to the side so she’s looking at me. “She’s who taught me to bake.”

  “So we definitely love Grandma Betsy.”

  “Definitely,” she smiles. Heaving a deep breath, she blows it out slowly. “You know what, Lance? You’re not a bad guy.”

  “I’ve been telling you this.”

  An easy little song hums through the speakers. She closes her eyes.

  Her body sinks into the seat as the crinkle in her forehead disappears. I want to ask her another question, to hear her voice again, but I don’t because seeing her like this is new. And I like it.

  I also like the look of her breasts in that red sweater.

  As we drive through the night, I imagine what life would be like without my family. Even when my brothers and Blaire make me crazy, which is often, I appreciate them. We’re a tribe, along with Peck and his brother Vincent and our Nana. We’d be nothing without each other.

  Imagining no Sunday dinners or church services or Friday nights at the bar with Peck getting tossed by Machlan—what would I do with my time? I take a peek at Mariah and wonder if that’s why she works a lot. She has nothing else to do. No one to hang out with, reminisce with, or enjoy a meal with.

  Or bake with.

  The exit to Linton approaches, the turnoff lit with a bright yellow light. I look at it, at Mariah, and plow forward.

  “Hey,” she says, opening her eyes. “That’s the exit.”

  “I know. I have something I need to do.”

  Rubbing my forehead, I know a quick exit I can take a half mile up the road and I know I should take it. I should turn this car around and head into town and get her out of my car. Stop the madness.

  Squirming in her seat, she sits upright. “Can’t you drop me off first? Or take me to Goodman’s and I’ll walk from there?”

  “Relax,” I instruct.

  “I don’t want to relax.”

  “Clearly.” Biting my lip, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, I skip the second, and the last, exit into town. “Don’t laugh.”

  “I promise nothing.” She folds her arms over her ample chest. “Where are we going?”

  “I have to go by my Nana’s.”

  “You’re kidding me?” she balks. “You have to go to your grandma’s at eight o’clock on a Saturday night?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Reasons.”

  She flops back on the seat again with a huff. “You really can’t take me home?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” I say with a simple shrug.

  “You sure sound real sorry.”

  My laugh is the last sound either of us make until my car pulls into Nana’s driveway a few minutes later. Parking behind her crossover vehicle, which she bought last year because it holds more casseroles for her church supper club than the sedan she had, I cut the engine.

  “Two things you need to know about Nana before we go in,” I say as seriously as I can. It’s almost impossible not to laugh at the soberness in Mariah’s face. “First, don’t say anything bad about Elvis.”

  “Got it.” She runs a hand through her long, dark locks. With every movement, the smell of her shampoo—something rich and flowery—almost kills me.

  “Second,” I say, pointing at her, “call her Nana.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Opening my door, I climb out. “I’m not telling you. You have to call her Nana.”

  She rustles around behind me then smacks the car door shut. Before I know it, she’s at my side with wild eyes. “Just tell me her name. Or I can call her Mrs. Gibson, I guess.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I say. My hands go up in defense as we climb the wooden steps Peck built a few summers ago. They creak with our weight, adding to the music from the crickets under the porch.

  The house is small, built in the early nineteen-twenties. Granddad kept it in perfect condition, then Dad took over. Now my brothers and Peck and I come by and do tasks for her when she needs them done. If we don’t get here quick enough, she calls a service guy and that makes us nuts.

  “This place is so cute,” she notes as we look across the back yard. The grass is freshly cut, probably by Walker. The remnants of Nana’s garden lie dormant by the shed. “It’s like a book, all quaint and lovely.”

  “Quaint and lovely?” I balk, turning towards the house. “Nice vocabulary you have there, Ms. Malarkey.”

  She doesn’t bother with a comeback. Instead, she files in behind me as I head for the sliding glass door into the kitchen.

  “I can stay in the car,” she whispers roughly. “I don’t have to go in.”

  “Do you want her coming out here to get you?”

  She taps me on the shoulder. “She doesn’t know I’m here. Why would she come out?”

  “Why are you whispering?” I whisper back. We’re eye-to-eye, our faces close enough that I could kiss her in a half a second. Her irises dilate as I lick my lips. “Relax,” I say turning back to the house before I do something stupid.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her start to reach for my hand. My he
art jumps in my throat as I wait for it. She stops herself before our skin makes contact. That’s probably for the best because if she touched me right now, I think I’d lose it. She’d be ass up over the deck chair in front of God and Nana. I don’t even give a fuck.

  Peering through the glass, I spy Nana at the farmhouse sink. She’s washing a mixing bowl while doing a little hip sway to a song I’m not privy to. I consider the ramifications of this. How she’ll be jumping to conclusions about me bringing a girl here. The fact that she’ll tell my brothers and I’ll be assaulted with endless questions tomorrow. I know she’ll even invite her to dinner tomorrow because she invites everyone to Sunday dinner. But how will Mariah take that? Will it be weird if she accepts? Will she think there’s more to it than there is?

  “She’s adorable,” Mariah says beside me. “What’s on her apron? Roosters?”

  “Third thing to remember about Nana. Don’t call them cocks. Machlan was a little hungover one Sunday at dinner and made a comment about all the cocks. That happened precisely one time.”

  “Got it,” she giggles. “She’s just so cute. Look at her dancing in there!”

  “Now you know where I get my skills,” I wink, shoving the door open. “Hey, Nana!”

  My grandmother jumps, her hand going to her throat and wrapping around a necklace. “You scared the heavens out of me, Lance.”

  “Sorry,” I say, picking up a cookie that’s still warm from a tray on the counter. It’s gooey and delicious as I stuff the whole thing in my mouth.

  “You don’t take a cookie without hugging me first. Oh!” She gazes over my shoulder to where Mariah is standing. Her jaw drops.

  Here we go.

  “Oh,” she says again, her hands going to the hem of her apron. Drying the dishwater from her palms, she looks at me, to Mariah, then back to me. “You brought a girlfriend?”

  “I—”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Mariah cuts in. “We’re just friends.”

  Nana nods slowly. Removing her apron and wadding it in a ball, she sets it by the microwave. “Lance, I will love you regardless.”

  “Regardless of what?” I ask, popping another cookie in my mouth. “These are really good, by the way.”

  “Tell you what, let’s just have this conversation now. There’s no time like the present,” Nana says, throwing her shoulders back. “The doctor on television says the best thing to do when a child or grandchild tells you they’re gay is to tell them you love them anyway. That you will be their safe spot. I’m your safe spot, Lance.”

  “Woah,” I say, taking a step back. Ignoring Mariah’s hiccupping giggle behind me, I look at my lovely grandmother. “Nana, I’m not gay.”

  “Your parents would’ve loved you the same too if that’s what you’re worried about. And don’t worry about your brothers. They’ll understand.”

  Mariah’s hand finds my shoulder. I don’t even want to look at her.

  “I’ll still be your friend, Lance,” she giggles.

  “Oh, stop it,” I say when my wits finally come back to me. “I’m not gay, Nana. I’m not.”

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure.”

  She gives me a warning look. “If you want to try coming in again, we can start over. But leave the language on the steps. I’ll love you if you love men, but not if you continue to use that filthy language.”

  “Sorry.” I glance at Mariah. She’s eating this up. I can almost hear the jokes on the tip of her tongue. “You, I’ll deal with later.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispers, eyes dancing. She winks at me, ignoring my glower, before looking at Nana. “I’m Mariah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You can call me Nana. And I’m so sorry for the confusion, dear. It’s just that Lance has never brought someone to my house and I just assumed that’s why he was here. To show you off.”

  Mariah’s cheeks split into a grin. “Please don’t apologize. I work with him and we’ve all wondered about his sexual orientation for a long time. It’s nice to finally know.”

  “Shut the fu …” I say, shaking my head.

  “No wonder she’s not your girlfriend with that mouth,” Nana chastises me. “You expect her to kiss a mouth that filthy?”

  My eyes drag to Mariah’s. “It’d be nice.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I can’t miss the rosiness to her cheeks. “I don’t kiss boys with mouths that dirty.”

  “What if I promise to never curse again?”

  “You should try that,” Nana interrupts. I jump, having forgotten she was there. “I made some pudding tonight. The old-fashioned butterscotch kind. Want some?”

  What I want has nothing to do with pudding or butterscotch or Nana’s fridge.

  “Oh!” Mariah walks by me, heading towards Nana. “I love old Pyrex dishes.” She picks up the light pink bowl with pudding inside and caresses it like I wish she would my cock. “My grandma had all sorts of these. We’d bake until we ran out of things to bake and they’d all be lined up down the middle of her table in little dishes like these,” she sighs. “I love them.”

  Nana eats this up. She’s by her side faster than I’ve seen the woman move in years.

  “My Grandma Betsy had this little light pink candy dish about like this, only smaller. She used to keep cinnamon balls in there for my grandpa.”

  Nana’s face lights up. “I have a whole collection of these. Follow me, sweet girl.”

  This is not what I had in mind. “Hey, what about me?”

  “Eat some cookies. There’s milk in the fridge,” Nana shouts as she disappears around the corner.

  Sitting on a stool, I watch the doorway. Their voices trickle down the hallway and hearing them together makes me smile. There aren’t girls in our family but Blaire and she’s not a warm and fuzzy kind of person. Walker’s girlfriend, Sienna, is around now. She comes by and chats with Nana some, but I know Nana is still lonely for the kind of attention us boys can’t give her.

  I consider going in the guest room with them where Nana stores her extra dishes. Popping a cookie in my mouth, I’m not really sure what to say if I go in there. It seems weird. So, I eat another cookie instead.

  For just a moment, I let myself consider how this would feel on the regular. Bringing a girl by my grandma’s. Doing something on a Saturday night besides being at Crave with my brothers or fucking a girl I’ve texted a few times on an app. In theory, it’s great. If it could just be that, spending time together and hanging out with no strings attached, I could buy it. It probably wouldn’t be bad.

  It’s also probably not possible.

  I’m another cookie and glass of milk in before they’re done back there.

  “Yes! I roll it out with powdered sugar instead of flour,” Mariah says as they come around the corner. The corners of her mouth almost touch the lashes of her eyes. Her hair is pulled back high on her head, her cheeks a gorgeous shade of pink. “You should try it. It’s a neat little trick.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I am going to try it. I’ll make the boys some sugar cookies for dinner tomorrow.”

  “We’re having cookies for dinner?” I ask, trying to be relevant. They ignore me.

  “I’d love to have your carrot cake recipe too,” Nana tells her. “If you share that kind of thing. Not all cooks do, you know.”

  They banter back and forth about recipes and I watch dumbfounded. I’ve never seen Mariah this animated or Nana this excited. I just eat another cookie and wonder why the world works like it does. I go out of my way to be a good person. To avoid situations that cause trouble. To not harm anyone. If karma is real, why do I get put in these positions? Where everything seems perfect on the outside when, in fact, it’s not? It can’t be.

  “Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow, Mariah?” Nana asks. “I’m making pot roast, potatoes, carrots, the works. If you come early, you can show me your cookie trick.”

  My breath catches in my
throat. Mariah looks at me out of the corner of her eye, checking my reaction. I try my best not to. Having her here tonight is one thing. With my brothers tomorrow is another.

  “I don’t think so, Nana,” she says softly.

  I’m relieved. I’m also something else, something I don’t want to ponder too long.

  “Well, I do,” Nana insists.

  “I ...” Mariah clears her throat. “I have plans. I’m sorry.” She watches me closely as I try to remain blank-faced. “Thank you, though, for the offer. It’s sweet of you.”

  “That offer extends any time, honey. I’d love to have you for dinner.”

  Climbing off the stool, I need to get control of this situation. “I’d love to have you for dinner too.”

  Mariah shoots me a look as I try not to laugh at my own joke.

  “Nana, we gotta go,” I say. “It was nice seeing you.”

  Mariah takes a step towards me and stops. “Did you do whatever you came to do?”

  Giving Nana a kiss on the cheek, I turn back to Mariah. “I just did.”

  “Did I call you and ask you to do something?” Nana asks. “Lord, I’m getting forgetful in my old age. If I did, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re fine,” I say, kissing her cheek again. “Come on, Social Butterfly,” I say motioning towards the door. “Let’s get you home.”

  Nine

  Mariah

  Lance is quiet as he backs the car down the driveway. The moon hangs brightly overhead, but the sky is pitch black otherwise. No stars. No satellites. No glittery planets glowing from far off.

  The car is cozy despite the cool evening. A song drifts smoothly from the speakers, lulling me even more into a state of contentment. It’s that feeling you get when something really nice happens and you know you could just close your eyes with a smile on your face and drift off to sleep.

  Peeking at Lance as he steers the car around a pothole, I wonder what it would be like to wake up beside him. Or to go to sleep at his side. Or spend the evening with him and his family.

  I wonder what the rest of them are like. Are they all as wonderful as his grandmother?

  Her declaration that he hasn’t brought a girl to her house before rolls through my mind. Am I just that good of a friend? Was it just a timing issue? Probably. I’m grateful for it either way because I haven’t felt that happy and understood since Grandma Betsy passed away.