Page 36 of Wrecked

“If it isn’t my favorite granddaughter!” she says.

I fall to my knees on the floor beside her chair and give her a hug.

“Hey! I take offense to that,” Emma says, walking down the stairs.

Her dirty blonde hair is long and straight, covering the straps of an adorable cotton sundress. She’s wearing boat shoes, and it makes me laugh because she’s the least aquatic person I know.

I give my grandmother a big hug. Her tiny shoulders feel warm under my hands. A little too bony for my liking, but she looks healthy.

Her head cranes over my shoulder at Emma. “This one at least indulges my need for sexual fiction. You won’t even pretend to play along.”

With her hands on her hips, Emma taps her foot. “Because I won’t talk to you about my sex life, I lose out on the favorite status?”

I lean back to look at Grandma. She’s four feet eleven inches, but her personality is a hundred feet tall. Her cane is leaning against the chair.

She waves off Emma. “Don’t worry; you’re still in the will.” Then, she turns to me and says loudly, “Don’t tell her, but I’m spending every last dime on booze and men. There won’t be anything left.”

Laughing, I whisper back, “Your secret is safe with me. Just wear protection. We don’t want you getting pregnant.”

Grandma pushes me away by the shoulder, and I fall on the floor.

Emma stands there, shaking her head. “You two are carbon copies of one another.”

I get to my feet and walk over to Emma. I give her a hug, and we sway back and forth a bit.

“Hey, big sis,” I say.

She responds, “Hey, little sister,” which is silly.

We were born in the same year. Her birthday is January 23, and mine is December 30.

Her golden sundress shows off her beautifully tan skin. She always says I won the genetic lottery with blue eyes while she’s a brown-eyed girl. I, on the other hand, would give anything for her easily tanned skin.

Emma releases me and runs her fingers through her hair. She turns to Luke. “Hey, punk.”

While Luke tells Emma about the bonfire tonight, I go back to Grandma and sit on the carpet beside her cane.

“So, tell me, have you met anyone?” she asks.

“That’s always your first question.”

She holds the back of her hand to her head and leans back. “I am on my final days. When you get to be my age, the clock ticks louder. I’d like to see some great-grandchildren before my demise.”

“You’re more likely to get them out of Emma. She and Parker are looking at condos.”

Grandma leans in, but this time, she actually whispers, “I don’t like that boy.”

I return her sentiment, “Me either.”

We’re the only two in the family who aren’t impressed with Emma’s boyfriend, Parker Ryles.

First of all, he’s a flautist with the Pittsburgh Symphony. Second of all, he’s a total pretentious asshole. He’s the kind of guy who talks about Monet like it’s a religious experience or how he was moved to tears when he walked the Great Wall. He says Ohn-teh-mehnn’s instead of Entenmann’s, and he said he’d rather smoke crack than shop in a Walmart. If he were here, he’d convince Emma to ditch the bonfire and stay in with him to watch a documentary on some boring historical icon, and then they’d talk about said documentary for hours.

But I digress.

I don’t hate him for those reasons. I hate him because, every time he walks into my parents’ house, he makes comments about “quaint Americana” and “how interesting it must have been to grow up in a home with one shower.”

In short, he’s a douche with a flute.