His chin dropped to his chest. Maybe he was being paranoid.
“I’m sorry. And you’re wrong. I did notice. Right when I first saw you at the airport. Your hair looks really nice. I should have said something then, right away. It’s just after finally landing after traveling all day, I was anxious to get my bag and get out of there and home.”
“It’s okay, sweetie. I know it wasn’t fun, being delayed and not getting here until so late. You must be hungry and tired.”
“A little,” he answered, noticing how hungry he actually was now that she’d mentioned it.
“Nothing a dozen wings and a nice cold beer at the Muddy River Inn won’t cure,” she said cheerfully. “We’re going to head directly there. We don’t need to stop home for anything, do we?” She looked toward his father, who shot her a sideways glance and shook his head while lifting one shoulder.
So now his mother, who always casually commented on the number of beers he took out of the fridge because she was worried about himover-indulging, was suggesting he geta nice coldone?
He wasn’t imagining it. She was behaving strangely.
He mentally reviewed her recent questions, both in texts to him and in person, searching now for the subtext and anything that connected the seemingly unrelated topics.
What time would he be landing…That one was most likely innocent. They were his ride home, after all.
But the rest…
Would he like to go to the MRI for dinner tonight…
Were they going directly there now instead of later after going home first…
Was he dating anyone…
A common thread, thin but definitely there, began to emerge. And he didn’t like what he was seeing.Dammit.
“Does it matter when we get to the bar?” he asked, testing his theory.
“Uh, no. Of course not. It’s not like I made a reservation or anything. Wouldn’t that be funny? They don’t even take reservations.” Her laugh that followed had a nervous edge to it. “I was just thinking, you know, the earlier the better because the later crowd can get so loud. Always playing that darn juke box. And I know you must be hungry. I sure am.”
Her hurried list of excuses didn’t ease his mind.
“You’re right. It can get loud there at night. Maybe we should just call in a take-out order. Pick up some wings to-go,” he suggested. “Dad could run in and grab the bag and then we head home and have a nice quiet meal there. Alone.”
He watched for her reaction and she didn’t disappoint.
“What? No. We should eat there.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, because, you know, now that I think about it, I believe there’s no beer at the house. Right, dear?” His mother shot his father a sideways stare, causing the man to focus singly on the road ahead as he grunted a non-committal response.
“We could pick up some beer at the gas station in town,” Dean suggested, shooting down what he more than suspected was a fake problem.
She always had beer in the house for his dad. And she particularly went shopping and stocked up on everything and anything Dean liked when he came home for a visit.
“We could,” she said. “But the fries are never as crispy after they’ve been in the take-out containers. The condensation makes them all soggy. And the food isn’t as hot by the time we get home…”
The lady doth protest too much…
“Mom, is this a blind date?” he accused.
His question visibly threw her. She opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking.
Dean shook his head. It was so clear he could no longer deny it. “There’s somebody waiting at the bar for us, isn’t there? Waiting forme. Dammit, Mom. I swear to God, if you’re trying to fix me up with some?—”
“Dean Duncan Sinclair, don’t you swear at your mother.” Finally contributing to the conversation, his father jumped in with the firm voice he rarely used. The deep scary disciplinarian tone that had sent fear through younger Dean and still caused a visceral reaction now in him as an adult.
