I don’t look at mom. Instead, I twist out of her grip again.
Margaret pushes her hair behind her ears, her brows lowered. “I—I think ‘unhoused’ or ‘houseless’ is the preferred term now.”
Grandma Eloise’s face squishes up like a prune. “What? Why on earth?—”
Margaret tries to explain, but I know this is just the beginning of a fruitless effort, so I take my opportunity and stealthily snap a picture of the Bon Temps Grill menu. I send it to Beck before typing:
Me: NOT ONE, BUT TWO LEG APPETIZERS: SWAMP LEGS AND FROG LEGS. I’M SORRY, BUT NO. AND SWAMP LEGS CONTAIN TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF LEGS: DUCK AND ALLIGATOR. NO. NO. NO.
Beck:
“—Because housing insecurity shouldn’t carry a stigma, Grandma.”
“Why on earth not? If people don’t work to put a roof over their heads, they should be ashamed.”
I close my eyes and open them when my phone buzzes again.
Beck: What’s your favorite restaurant? I want to make sure I do it right when my schedule settles down and I can take you on a real date.
A real date.
The night we first texted, I couldn’t quite believe he wanted to see me again. And now?—
BECK WANTS TO TAKE ME ON A REAL DATE!!!
This is almost too much to absorb sitting still. Because, as far as I’m concerned, our upcoming coffee-in-the-park is very real and is very much a date.
At least, I think it is.
Wait. Maybe he doesn’t.
Does he?
Me: IS SATURDAY COFFEE NOT A REAL DATE???
“Harriet!” Grandma Eloise snaps. “Our server is waiting to take your order. Lands, child, get your head out of the clouds!”
When I jump, my phone clatters to the floor. Counting myself lucky it landed face down, I bend over to pluck it up, and it takes me a moment to remember what I’d planned to order.
“Um… sweet potato mash… braised Brussel sprouts, and, um, a side of the jalapeno cheese grits.”
Mom leans closer, wincing. Her breath smells like mustard as she whispers, “Are you sure you want the sweet potatoes and the grits, honey?”
I want to pull away, but if I do, I’ll fall off my chair. “You’re in my space?—”
“Mom, just let her get what she w?—”
“There’s no sense in trying to reason with her, Hillary,” Grandma Eloise brays behind her glass of iced tea. Unsweetened iced tea. “She has no interest in slimming down.”
I don’t move, but a part of me just flips the Closed sign.
The server must take the menu because it was on the table in front of me, and now it’s not.
I no longer feel the chair I sit on or the floor under my feet. But I’m not floating. Just the opposite. My limbs drag like sandbags.
Conversations might as well be happening from down the street.
Which is good. I don’t want to hear any more words.