Mitch is standing in the entryway, gesticulating wildly as Grant blocks him from coming farther into the house.

“What’s wrong?” I ask them.

Without taking his off Mitch, Grant says, “This man just waltzed right into the house. When I asked him to explain himself, he questioned who I was. As if he has more right to be here than I do.”

“I needed to borrow some sugar, and Brenden’s car wasn’t here, so I didn’t think I’d be disturbing anyone,” Mitch says, sounding exasperated. “I told this guy I live next door, but he doesn’t believe me!” He pauses, then squints his eyes at me. “Wait. What the heck are you doing here if he’s not home?”

I immediately move into damage control mode, stepping up to the two men and assuring Grant that Mitch does in fact live next door and is friends with Brenden, before grabbing Mitch by the elbow and tugging him toward the kitchen with me.

“I’m making dinner,” I tell him. “Brenden will be home soon.”

“But why?” he asks, and I purposefully step on his foot.

I assume Grant is following us, so without considering the ramifications of this, I explain as quickly and quietly as I can, “You need to pretend I’m dating Brenden, okay?”

“But—”

“Is this a normal thing around here, for people to come into other people’s homes uninvited?” Grant asks. My gaze swings to where he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

“The front’s always unlocked!” Mitch exclaims, clearly winding himself up again. But at least this takes his focus off me and why I’m here cooking dinner. “People are friendly around here! Unlike wherever it is you came from.”

Grant’s face pinches up so much he looks constipated.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, hoping to pacify them both. “Grant, this is Mitch. He’s a friend of Brenden’s, and I’m sure Brenden wouldn’t mind him coming in to borrow something. Mitch, this is May’s grandfather. He and her grandmother are here visiting.”

Mitch and Grant continue to eye each other distastefully. The differences between the men are highlighted by their clothing choices. While Grant is wearing slacks on his vacation, Mitch is sporting cutoff jean shorts and a T-shirt with a semi-vulgar beer advertisement.

“You said you needed sugar?” I ask Mitch, breaking the silence when it’s obvious the two of them aren’t going to exchange pleasantries.

“That’s right,” he tells me. “Half a cup will do.”