We grew up in the sticky, kudzu-choked humidity of central Georgia. He grew up in a gray, tastefully expensive suburb of Boston. And every summer, his parents would ship him down to my grandmother’s farm for two weeks of “family connection.” Those two weeks were my annual descent into hell.
“Because,” he said, “you’re the only people who tell me to shut up to my face.” My Only Bitchy Cousin Is a Yankee-Type Guy- The...
“I know,” I said, sitting down next to him. “You’re a terrible liar.” We grew up in the sticky, kudzu-choked humidity
Bradley had pale skin that burned if you looked at it wrong, and he wore the same navy-blue polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts every single day. He was nine going on forty. While the rest of us kids were catching lightning bugs and eating watermelon on the porch, Bradley would be inside, reorganizing my grandmother’s spice rack alphabetically. “Because,” he said, “you’re the only people who
He raised his beer. I raised my sweet tea. We didn’t clink. We just sat there, two completely different people from two completely different worlds, watching the same stars.
He still corrects my grammar. I still threaten to push him off the dock. But now when he says “It’s ‘fewer’ not ‘less,’” I say, “Bless your heart, Bradley.” And for some reason, that’s become the nicest thing either of us knows how to say.