“Derick’s doing great at the drive-in,” I say, coming to his defense.
“I’ve been following his social media accounts,” Preeti says. “The pictures of the drive-in make it look so quaint and cute. I’ve never been to a drive-in before.”
“You should come by,” I say. “I’m happy to comp you in any time. Derick has an eye for what makes the lot special. He even got firsthand customer-service experience when he helped us in the concessions stand.”
“He did what?” Mr. Haverford asks, turning his ear to me like he misheard.
“We were short-staffed a few weeks back, and he pitched in slinging hot dogs and scooping Polish water ice—the whole nine yards.”
“It wasn’t a big deal, Dad,” Derick says, entering from the kitchen with a platter of sides. He’s wearing ironed slacks and a shirt with a starched collar. He looks like a buttoned-up, cardboard-cutout version of himself. That’s until he smiles at me and he melds back into flesh and bone, tender and attractive.
“Clear the way,” Mrs. Haverford says, oven mitts on, a steaming roast on a serving platter in her hands. Derick swerves to the side, and she sets the cut beef down as a centerpiece. It’s topped with frizzled onions over a bed of arugula with roasted carrots all around.
“New York Strip roast. Brought a little city back to the country.” Mrs. Haverford calls for Alexa to play her easy-listening Linda Ronstadt playlist. Derick gives a not-this-again eye roll. “Wren, darling, it’s been far too long since we’ve seen you. Look at you. You’re all grown up!”
“I suppose I am,” I say, laughing. I’m not the ten-year-old boy who dropped ice cream cake on his lap at Derick’s half-birthday party (yes, they had half-birthday parties too) and had to be changed into a spare pair of his shorts because Mom was at work and Dad wasn’t picking up the phone.
The sides get passed around. I load my plate with vegetables and mashed potatoes. Mr. Haverford’s eyes never leave our side of the table. What is he watching for?
“Derick, howhasyour time at the drive-in been? Aside from your stint in the snack shack.” Mr. Haverford makes the snack shack sound like it’s a lurid hotbed of sin.
“It’s been nice. It’s a good place to work. Thanks for setting it up.” He’s so submissive, head bowed, fork scraping over his plate. I squeeze his hand to buoy him. “I like it there.”
“Well, that’s good, but it is a temporary position.” Mr. Haverford chews his medium-rare steak with razor-sharp incisors. I see now where Derick gets his carnivorous ways. “You’d do well to remember that.”
Derick slumps even lower in his seat. It’s rude of his father to be reprimanding him in front of company, making him feel worse about having to transition over to the family business when the season ends. This further explains why Derick kept me out of this house when we were in high school. I change the subject to save him from further passive-aggressive flogging. “How was South Carolina?”
“Oh, lovely, thanks,” Mrs. Haverford says, dabbing the corners of her peach-tinted mouth. “It’s nice to be home for a bit though. We spend a lot of our time biking and walking the beach there, and my back is not what it used to be. I’m accustomed to my nightly soaks in the hot tub here, but we don’t have one down there just yet.” Her eyes fly to Mr. Haverford’s face. It’s a source of dispute, I can tell.
“That sounds nice,” I say and then stuff my mouth with glazed carrots.
“Doesn’t it? You boys should take a dip in the pool this evening after dinner and then sit for a spell. If you shut the lights out on the back patio and tilt your head back, you can see so many stars. It’s peaceful,” she says wistfully. Maybe she’s a romantic like me.
“We’ll join you,” David adds of him and Preeti.
“Derick tells us you recorded a podcast episode while you were away,” Preeti says.
The recording feels like a little lifetime ago, the puffy headphones hugging my ears and a spit-shielded microphone in my face. It went well. The banter and passion came easily. Oscar put me at ease even as the morning-run endorphins surged within me.
“When can we hear the finished product?” she asks. “I love podcasts. It’s like eavesdropping on a million interesting conversations. The hosts start to feel like your friends.”
“Hopefully, the beginning of August. We’re coordinating the drop with the Alice Kelly event we’re throwing at Wiley’s.”
“What event is this?” Mrs. Haverford asks.
Has Derick not even mentioned Alice once? We’ve spent the last month and a half redoing her house. Mateo and Avery get earfuls of her wild antics every time I come home drenched, tired, and starving. I don’t shut up about her.
“It’s—”
Derick cuts in. “A special screening. That’s all. The roast is fantastic, Mom.”
Mrs. Haverford beams.
When everyone returns to their plates, Derick mouths to me, “They just won’t get it,” and then shrugs. I offer a half smile and slice off another hunk of steak.
***
Later, I’m up in Derick’s bedroom. I’m supposed to be changing into one of his old swimsuits, but I’m struck. This space is nothing like I remember from the ice cream cake incident of old. When we stopped here in high school, I never made it up the stairs. In and out. Quick stops that never necessitated a hello or a goodbye.
