“Nothing formal,” I added quickly. “Just dinner. Casual. You can even use your notebook if talking gets too overwhelming.”
For a moment, I thought he might bolt. His fingers tightened around his pen, and I could practically see him calculating escape routes. But then his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he wrote:
You sure they want me there?
“Evan.” I waited until he looked at me, really looked at me. “They've been asking about you for months. Mom lights up every time I mention your name. Trust me, they want you there.”
He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then he nodded, just once, and my heart did a small celebration dance in my chest.
“Come on then,” I said, standing and leaving money on the table. “Let's go feed you some of Anna Harrington's famous lasagna before I change my mind and decide I want to keep you all to myself.”
The walkto my house was quiet, but it was the comfortable kind of silence that had developed between us over months of friendship. Evan's presence beside me was solid, reassuring in ways I didn't want to examine too closely. When our shoulders brushed as we navigated around a puddle, I felt that familiar flutter of awareness that I'd been studiously ignoring for weeks.
Maybe months.
Definitely wasn't going to think about that tonight.
“Fair warning,” I said as we approached my front door, “Mom's going to fuss. It's what she does. Just smile and nod and let her pile food on your plate.”
Evan's mouth quirked up in that almost-smile, and he pulled out his notebook.
I can handle fussing,he wrote.
“Good, because you're about to get the full Anna Harrington experience.”
I wasn't kidding. The second we walked through the door, Mom appeared from the kitchen like she'd been waiting by the window for us to arrive. Her face lit up when she saw Evan.
“Evan!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “What a wonderful surprise. Nate didn't tell me you were coming over.”
“Spur of the moment decision,” I said, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door. “Hope that's okay.”
“Of course it's okay. You know you're always welcome here.” She turned to Evan with that motherly smile that had never failed to make me feel loved and slightly embarrassed. “Are you hungry? I made lasagna, and there's enough to feed a small army.”
Evan nodded, then surprised me by actually speaking. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. That's very kind.”
His voice was quiet, careful, but it was there. Real words spoken aloud in my living room, and Mom's face practically glowed with delight.
“Please, call me Anna. And it's my pleasure.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on, let's get you both fed.”
Dad looked up from his newspaper when we entered the kitchen, taking in Evan's presence.
Evan extended a hand and said, quietly but clearly, “Mr. Harrington. Thank you for having me.”
“Michael,” Dad corrected, shaking Evan's hand with obvious approval. “And you're welcome anytime. Nate talks about you constantly.”
Heat flooded my face. “Dad.”
“What? You do.” He turned back to Evan with something that might have been a smile. “All good things, don't worry.”
Evan's cheeks went pink, but he didn't retreat. If anything, he seemed to stand straighter, meeting Dad's eyes with quiet confidence.
Dinner was a revelation. Not the food—though Mom's lasagna was, as always, incredible—but watching Evan navigate my family's chaotic warmth with growing ease. He answered Mom's gentle questions about school and his interests, spoke briefly with Dad about the lumber business and local wildlife, even smiled when Mom insisted on giving him seconds.
But it was the way he looked at me throughout the meal that made my chest tight with something I didn't have words for. Like I was the anchor point in a room full of strangers, the safe harbor that made conversation possible.
Like I mattered to him in ways that went beyond simple friendship.
“Nate tells me you're quite the artist,” Mom said as she cleared plates. “He mentioned you do beautiful sketches.”
