She almost chickened out, then reminded herself she was twenty-two years old. “Would it be okay if we had someone for dinner?”
Umma glanced over. “Claire?”
“No.” Bea tucked her hair behind her ear. “Gage. He’s in town. Just for a few days.” She waited. “He’d like to meet you both.”
Umma turned the heat down. “And you want us to meet him?”
“I do.”
The silence stretched. Then Umma stirred the pan, slow and thoughtful. “Does he eat spice?”
Bea let out a breath that was half a laugh. “He says he does.”
Umma hummed. “They all say that.”
Across the room, Bea’s father flipped a page of his newspaper. He didn’t look up.
“We could go out instead, if that’s easier. Somewhere neutral.”
Papa cleared his throat. “If he wants to meet us, he can eat at our table.”
Umma gave a small smile. “We’ll cook. Better that way.”
Bea smiled, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t quite name.
“And Bea,” her mother added, eyes still on the pan. “Don’t wear that white sweater. The neckline is too low.”
The doorbell rang at 6:01 p.m.
Bea paused mid-stir, one hand still on the spoon. Umma didn’t look up from arranging scallion pancakes, but her voice was soft. “Open the door.”
Bea wiped her hands, exhaled, and walked down the hall. When she opened the door, Gage stood there. Navy overcoat, dark trousers, boots with a dusting of snow. Calm, like he wasn’t about to walk into the next test. His eyes swept over her—long hair down, apron tied around her waist, all the way down to her brown fluffy teddy-bear socks with their pink-cheeked faces. Then he gave a rare smile.
“Hi,” she said, her breath catching stupidly.
He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. Like he needed to confirm she was real. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m cooking.”
In his left hand, he carried a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane and brimming with everything from winter pears and kiwis, to produce that looked smuggled out of another climate, like pineapple, papaya, and cherimoya.
“That’s—Gage, that’s a lot of fruit.”
“Your mother reads fiction,” he said mildly. “I’m being thorough.”
Bea choked on a laugh. He was ridiculous. And probably right.
“Come in.” When he took a step, she jabbed him lightly with her elbow. “Shoes.”
There was a beat. And then he bent to untie them, stepping carefully onto the mat. Plain black socks, completely devoid of whimsy.
How she would have adored if he secretly wore socks with action heroes.
Her umma appeared from the kitchen, wearing a matching apron to Bea’s. “You must be Gage,” she said, eyes kind even as she clocked every detail.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cruz,” he said with a respectful nod.
“And this?” she asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.
