And for just a moment, I allowed myself to smile back.
---- ??? ----
Even if I felt unworthy of it all.
Even if this happiness wasn’t really mine to claim.
Even if the guilt lingered, quietly gnawing at the edges of every breath I took.
Dinner at my house was never a silent affair.
Even on nights when the food was particularly good—like tonight—it was always a whirlwind of activity. Jackson would be chattering away with his mouth full, my dad would be cracking his usual corny jokes, and my mom would flit between urging everyone to eat more and asking questions that no one wanted to answer.
I should’ve given Liz a heads-up.
But she didn’t seem fazed. There she was, sitting across from me, laughing at one of my dad’s stories about burnt lasagna and his clumsy attempts to impress my mom back in the ’90s. Her eyes glimmered under the warm light, and the way her lips curled up made my heart race, tightening my chest in the most delightful way.
It felt a little dangerous how effortlessly she fit in here.
As if she truly belonged, and for just a fleeting moment, I let myself dream that maybe she did.
“So,” my mom said, casually wiping her hands on her napkin before folding them neatly on the table, “do you like him?”
I nearly choked on my water.
“Mom—” I coughed, shooting her a glare.
She blinked at me, unfazed, as if I were the one being overly dramatic.
“What? It’s a fair question.”
Jackson chuckled, taking a bite of his roll.
“Honestly, I was wondering the same thing.”
“You don’t count,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Liz looked entertained—completely unfazed by the sudden spotlight. She set her fork down, her gaze meeting my mom’s.
“I do,” she said, her voice light yet sincere. “I like him a lot.”
A hush fell over the table.
Then—
My dad leaned back in his chair with a cheeky grin. “Well, hell. That’s more than we usually get out of him.”
Laughter erupted around the table, including Liz’s sweet giggle. I joined in eventually, once my face cooled down enough to stop feeling like it was on fire.
“What’s not to like?” my mom winked. “He’s got decent manners when he remembers, cooks breakfast once a year, and only scowls at people who truly deserve it.”
“Wow, thanks for the glowing review,” I muttered, poking at my pasta.
But Liz smiled at me from across the table—an honest, warm smile—and something inside me softened, even as guilt twisted just beneath the surface.
For the next hour, we chatted like old friends. Liz shared tales of growing up with too many rules and not enough laughter, while Jackson recounted the timeI had a grand idea to build a skateboard ramp and ended up breaking my wrist in three places. My dad kept refilling her glass, and my mom peppered her with questions, all while sneaking herself extra helpings.
It was loud, chaotic, and wonderfully bizarre. It felt like home, And each time Liz glanced my way, I felt as if I were walking straight toward something I couldn’t have, yet desperately desired.
