Thetable had been the spot of many memories for Devin’s grandparents, sharingmeals overlooking their beautiful backyard in a small neighborhood in middleConnecticut. I was sure it was where he used his own musical talents, toserenade her over tea or coffee or whatever they drank, and after the guilt oftaking it had subsided, I had grown to cherish that we were making our ownspecial memories at that table.
Friendshipand double dates. Conversation and meals.
Andnow, it appeared it would hold the memory ofourfirst date.
Ifound myself nodding, stepping forward to a meatloaf I suddenly wished I wasn’twearing my pajamas. I wished my hair wasn’t piled on top of my head in a purplebirds’ nest. I wished I had thrown a little more makeup on, wished I had mademoreof an attempt at looking human—attractive—and as I sat down, and hepushed my chair in, I wished it had all happened sooner.
“Youbetter be washing your hands first,” I said in a quiet voice, glancing at himbefore he could sit, and he relaxed with a grin.
“Fine,”he grumbled, chuckling as his boots carried him into the kitchen and the waterwas turned on. Thirty long seconds later, he came back to the table and pulledhis chair out, sitting as he flashed his clean hands at me. “I used soap andwater. Would you like to smell them to make sure I’m not lying?”
“No,I think I can trust you,” I said with a gentle eye roll as I reached for themashed potato spoon, only to have Devin grab it first. “Wow, what happened toladies first?”
Hesmirked as he reached across the table for my plate, and my heart continued itsbase drum imitation as he scooped potatoes, green beans, and a slice ofmeatloaf onto my plate. After placing it back down in front of me, I stared atmy food with anxiety festering in my stomach, and I wondered, how was I goingto eat all of this? How the hell was I going to eatat all?
“So,I saw Billy today,” Devin said, commencing small talk as we normally wouldduring dinner.
“Howis he?” I asked without pause. I could handle our casual chatter. Casualchatter was comfortable and familiar.
“Stillgrumpy as fuck,” he said, quirking his mouth into a half smile as he poured thepitcher of iced tea into my glass.
Then,his brow crumpled at the sight of the glasses and tea, and he shoved his seatback. “Hold on a second,” he said, and walked into the living room.
Iknew the apartment like the back of my hand—I had lived there for even longerthan he had, after all—and when he took four steps and stopped, I knew he wasstanding in front of the Bluetooth speaker. It wasn’t unusual for us to listento music in the apartment. Melodies and lyrics carried me through theday-to-day to such an extent that, without it, the staccato of the world hadthe power to drive me crazy.
Butit was the song he chose.
Myhands covered my mouth and blocked my silent scream, as I listened to thebeginning acoustic notes of “Walking After You” by the Foo Fighters. It wasmood music, a sexy backdrop, and my heart thumped wildly, as he came back tothe table and sat down.
Iwatched as he grabbed his glass of iced tea and saw the tension of his bicep ashe lifted the glass to his mouth. I watched his Adam’s apple bob with eachswallow, watched him lower it back to the table, and I watched him lick hislips.
Andthen, he watched me.
“Whatare you looking at?” he asked over DaveGrohl’srasped voice.
“Nothing,”I lied, diverting my gaze to my drink. Grabbing it, I focused on the cold,sweating glass under my palm. I begged it to chill the flame that wasthreatening to swallow me whole.
“Liar.You’re looking atme,” he said, lifting the corner of his mouth into agrin. “It’s like you’ve never looked at me before.”
Iwasn’t sure I had.
Isuddenly felt like the twenty-year-old meeting the cute older boy again. Thedevilishly handsome hero who pretended to know me and saved me.
Exceptnow … it was like meeting him without having my sick father to worry about. Itwas as though none of that time had passed in between then and now, and Icouldn’t quite remember what kept us from being together.
“Anyway,”he said, brushing it off, “Billy’s a cranky fucker as usual, but he did say totell you hi.”
Ismiled weakly, wishing my stomach would finish its gymnastics routine. “MaybeI’ll come with you next time.”
Devinpicked up his fork and knife and smiled at me. “He’d really like that,” hesaid, and just before he began to cut up his meatloaf, he added, “I would too.”
Itook his cue, as though I had been waiting for it, and I began to slowly eat mydinner. Taking small bites and coaxing myself to swallow, despite the panickedbutterflies in my gut.
“Fuckinghell,” he groaned after taking a bite. “Now,that’sa meatloaf. I shouldcall Britney up right now and tell her.”
Isnorted, annoyed at how my laugh seemed to tangle with my nerves. “I’m sureshe’d love that.”
“Oh,yeah, I’m sure that would make her night, to hear from me. She didn’t want tosplit up,” he mentioned casually, and I glanced up from my plate. “I think shethought things might go somewhere between us or something.”
