Page 67 of Meet Cute Reboot

I stand. A droplet of water clings to Mom’s nose, beneath her humored eyes. She wipes it and then melts into laughter.

“Nothing like playing in the sprinkler on a hot day,” she says.

Admittedly, I do feel better. The cold water cut the heat and coupled with the breeze from the fan, I feel cooled and halfway functional. However, I have another item to add to my list of home repairs. A kitchen faucet can’t wait, though.

“What are you fools doing in here?” Madison says from the kitchen doorway. She enters and Harrison trails behind her. The creases around his dark brown eyes betray amusement. They must have seen everything.

“The faucet broke,” Mom says, “and we panicked.”

“I saw,” Maddie says, confirming my suspicion.

“You panicked,” I say. “I sprang into action.”

“Why is it blazing hot in here?” Madison plops her bowl of homemade coleslaw onto the table. It’s the closest I’ll get to a refreshing salad today.

“The AC’s out,” Nana says.

Madison’s lips scrunch into a pout. “I wish you would have told me. I might not have come.”

“It’s fine,” Harrison says, flashing us a broad smile. He walks over to Nana and tries to give her a side hug, but she presses against his chest.

“I’m wet and I smell like I rubbed onions under my armpits.”

“That’s pleasant,” Madison says.

Harrison offers his arms to Mom instead, and she returns his hug, patting his back as she squeezes. She looks miniature in his arms. He dwarfs all of us at a height of six feet seven inches. His height and superior hand-eye coordination earned him a spot on the Charleston Cougars basketball team, and he still has the muscles to show for it. He’s gorgeous and a sweetheart to boot. Maddie is a lucky girl.

“I can run to the store and get a new faucet,” he offers. There’s a mom-sized wet stain on his maroon Izod shirt.

“The oil’s ready,” Nana says. She grabs the hand towel from the oven handle and mops her face. “Dinner’s in fifteen. We can use the hose out back if we get desperate.”

Madison seems displeased by the prospect of incorporating a garden hose into dinner preparations. I share Madison’s sentiment but understand Nana’s determination. A pot of oil at the perfect temperature demands attention.

“Go keep Granny busy. I have this under control.” Nana shoos us out of the kitchen, Mom included.

“Don’t let any sweat drip into the oil,” Madison says on the way out. “Oil and water don’t mix.”

“Also, that would be gross,” I add.

Nana is unstoppable. Homemade fried chicken in ninety-degree heat. She’ll do anything to get her southern comfort food.

I nearly twisted her arm to get me to bring premade sweet tea. She called it an abomination. I called it a much-needed break for her arthritic feet.

“Sweet tea takes five minutes,” she said on our way out of the sanctuary this morning.

“It takes longer than that,” I argued.

“Ten.”

“Just let me help out, Nana.”

“Your Grandpa will be rolling in his grave.”

“It’s just tea, Grandma.”

“Fine. I’ll drink water.”

“You hate drinking plain water.”