I tossed the Brussels with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic, trying to channel the confident person I’d been at our bookstore dinner. That version of me had held hands and stolen glances and felt like maybe I could do this whole dating thing.
This version of me was having an anxiety attack over vegetables.
I sang along, doing a little white-man-hip-wiggle that would have made Debbie collapse in giggles. The kitchen timer chose that moment to ding, and I pulled the pork out of the oven, the apricot glaze caramelized to perfection.
Maybe I could do this after all.
I was a damn good cook, could’ve probably been a chef; so I knew Jeremiah would be impressed by our meal. Could I pull off the same after dessert?
I was just sliding the Brussels sprouts into the oven when NSYNC started up with “Bye Bye Bye,” and all pretense of cooking went out the window.
This song required full performance mode.
I sang, doing the hand gestures I’d learned from watching the music video approximately five hundred times in college.
I spun around the kitchen island, using my oven mitts as jazz hands, completely lost in the moment.
“Oh my God, what is happening in here? Mr. J, are you . . . dancing?”
I froze mid-spin to find Julia standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, her car keys dangling from one finger, and an expression of pure delight on her face.
“Julia, hi, um, hey.” I tossed down the oven mitts and smoothed back my hair—or tried to. It bounded back out of place, just like always. “How did you get in?”
“Front door was unlocked. I called out, but I don’t think you heard me over your . . . concert.” She was grinning, clearly enjoying my mortification. “Please tell me you’re recording this for posterity. The public needs video evidence.”
“God, no! I’m cooking,” I said defensively, though I was pretty sure my oven-mitts jazz hands had undermined any culinary credibility I might have had.
“Uh-huh. Is choreography part of the recipe?”
“It helps with . . . timing.”
Julia burst out laughing. “Mr. J, you are the biggest dork on the planet, and I mean that with love.”
“Uh, thanks, I think. That’s very reassuring.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, pulling out her phone. “This is going straight to my Insta.”
“Don’t you dare—” I lunged for her phone, but she hopped away with the deftness of a snow leopard leaping off a tree limb. Suddenly, I found myself chasing her around the kitchen island while NSYNC continued their assault on my dignity.
“Come on, show me those moves again!” Julia called out, staying just out of reach. “I want to see the full routine!”
“There is no routine!”
“That spin thing you were doing . . . do it again. And the jazz hands. Those were epic in oven mitts!”
Despite myself, I was laughing. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s literally my job to be terrible.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the center of the kitchen. “Dance with me, Mr. J! This is a classic!”
Before I could protest, she was pulling me into some kind of improvised dance that was part swing, part disaster. We spun around the kitchen, both of us laughing and completely off-beat, when a small voice joined the chaos.
“DADDY!”
Debbie appeared in the doorway, her overnight bag clutched in one hand. She assessed the situation with the shrewd eye of a five-year-old police interrogator who recognized fun when she saw it.
“Are you having a dance party without me?” she demanded, dropping her bag and rushing toward us.
“Button, I thought you were—”
