Inside, Bill, her dad, greeted us at the door with a warm smile and handshake. “Sean! Good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, Bill,” I said, matching his energy.
From the archway behind him, Ruby, her mom, appeared. Her gaze landed on Mel. The word ‘Ruby Stare’ jumped out of me. Laser beam-like, ready to make anyone rethink even if they were wearing tuxes at a backyard barbecue.
“Hi, Ruby. Smells incredible,” I said with an easy nod.
When in doubt, lead with food.
“Hi, thank you.” Then she turned to Mel. “Melanie, I thought you were coming home last night.”
Mel’s posture stiffened beside me. “We landed early this morning,” she said, stepping into the living room and setting her bag on a chair.
Ruby took her in, her expression holding that curious tilt, and I could almost hear the italic font of her voice:And where, precisely, did you land early this morning, Melanie?
“Can’t wait to hear about Dallas.” Sam joined us and brightly cut the tension. Her eyes darted from me to Mel and back again, an amused glint in them.
“The guys’ shots were insane,” Mel said, grateful, I could tell, for the shift in subject.
“Unfortunately, the shots weren’t enough,” I added, and the conversation turned to hockey as we followed the smell of roasted garlic and herbs into the dining room.
The table looked like part of a lifestyle spread—china plates, linen napkins threaded through ornate rings, polished silverware catching the light. Ruby poured water with practiced elegance that suggested she’d done this a hundred times. I wondered what she did for a living before she retired. Something exacting, no doubt.
Sam grabbed a roll and smirked at me. She could tell I was finding my footing. Her look saidGood luck, Sean. You’d need it to survive this crew.
Bill turned to me. “So, how do you prepare for away games like that? There has to be a flow to it.”
I nodded. “There definitely is. Stats and knowing your guys helps, but real coaching is about instinct. Gauging when to push or when to pull back.”
He smiled. “Sounds a lot like golf. You can’t rely on averages alone; you have to know the person.”
“Exactly,” I replied, and the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm.
But I couldn’t help watching Ruby. The fact that she’d invited an ex who dumped her daughter to this house still made no damn sense to me. I reached for Mel’s hand and kissed the back of it, slow and deliberate. She smiled, but she’d grown more reserved since we arrived. It was very subtle, but I clocked it.
Ruby could try to squeeze Mel with her icy politeness, but public display of affection? That was my counterpunch to passive aggression.
The conversation shifted to Sam’s residency as we ate. Her voice was bright as she told us about general medicine and pediatrics. But every so often, there was a pause, as if she was tucking something heavier out of sight.
When we finished the main meal, Ruby announced dessert. Lemon carrot cake happened to be Sam’s favorite.
“Swapping these out for cake plates.” Mel started clearing the table.
“I’ll help.” Ruby grabbed two empty glasses.
Bill and I stayed seated, as conversation switched from Sam talking about medicine to the golf course where he worked, then to golf.
At one point, I excused myself to use the bathroom.
The hallway led me past hollow-core doors to the bathroom, a door from the kitchen. It was tiled in that faded ’90s ranch style. The house layout was one of the many the real estate agent had shown me last year when I was house hunting. The thin walls had turned me off instantly.
I washed my hands, then froze mid-reach for the towel.
“I’m not doing this right now.” Mel’s voice, low but firm, could be heard through the wall.
“You brought him for lunch, fresh and dressed like that, from a plane that landed this morning?” Ruby’s voice was incredulous.
“Mom, I’m twenty-eight.”
