“I don’t know how long this storm will last. I’ll save it for another time.”
“That’s too bad.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair.
My grandma excused herself then—saying some nonsense about helping Grandpa get ‘settled’ and that she’d be down later. She did make sure to reiterate that we have fun…reconnecting.
My red face didn’t last for long.
“I will need to make sure I get my chocolate pie fix before I go.”
I raised my eyebrows. “My grandma will be all over that the second the power comes back on.”
“I think I’m more interested in seeingyoumake my pie.”
“You saw me with pancakes. A pie might kill you.”
“I either need the pie or the kiss story from you before I go. Preferably both.”
I sighed. “I hate to have guests leave disappointed.”
He laughed and motioned toward the TV. “We don’t have much else to pass our time today, how about we play for it? Do Bob and Susan still have the ping pong table downstairs?”
“Yes. But I need some clarification. What exactly are we playing for?” Knowing Dusty, playing for “it” could either be the chocolate pie or the kiss story, and I needed to be sure.
“You tell me what you think we’re playing for and I’ll tell you if you’re right.” The playful look on his face did something thrilling to my insides.
“This feels like a trap.”
“Not my problem.”
I pursed my lips. “I have never made a pie in my life. I’m not sure I should start now.”
“Great. We’ll start with the kiss.”
“No, we won’t. Pie only. What happens to you when I win?”
“I’ll makeyoua pie. And I should mention I’ve never made one before either.”
“Hmmm…in that case, since it might be horrible, can you do it shirtless? Maybe with a little chef’s hat on?”
It was a brazen comment for me, but I only said it to see if I could make him blush. And sure enough, red spots of color tinged his cheeks, and he seemed to have a hard time forming a response. Wow. Is this what having control of the conversation felt like? No wonder Dusty kept flirting with me, it felt amazing from this end.
“Cat got your tongue?” I asked, innocently.
“Alright, we’re playing for pie. If I win, you make it. If you win, I’ll make it. And we may or may not be shirtless.”
He held out his hand which I shook, tentatively, as his warm fingers engulfed mine.
“Deal, except for the part aboutmebeing shirtless.”
7
We gathered all the lanterns my grandparents had in the house and brought them with us down the rickety basement steps, the only access through the kitchen. My grandpa had played ping pong in the Vietnam war and had had the table in their basement for as long as I could remember. Summers with Dusty and Julia meant a lot of ping pong competitions. We had all started terrible, as most kids are, but mix that with a lot of bored, hot summer days sneaking into the house to cool off, and we grew to be good competition for each other. Julia was usually more of a skilled competitor where sports were involved, but for whatever reason, ping pong was something I did better. The hours Dusty and I used to spend playing against one another came back to me as strong as the smell of moth and dampness that hit my nose when we reached the dark basement. The lanterns gave the musty room a cozy yellow glow.
Even if the power hadn’t been off, the room had always felt dark to me. At one time, in the prime of the home’s life, the basement had been used as a second family room. A box TV straight from the eighties sat on a small stand in the back corner and a few pieces of mismatched furniture were settled haphazardly around it. Dark wood paneling lined the walls and I shivered a bit as the cold from the basement seeped into my skin. The ping pong table sat dusty and unused at the base of the stairs.
I had played a bit at college—usually there was an apartment lounge somewhere with a ping pong table in it. I quickly found out that it’s one of those sports where, when a guy finds out you can hold your own, you become a member of some ping pong club where guys would call me up at random to play against them. Ping pong had been a safe way for me to hang around boys since we were both so focused on the game, I had less time to say something dumb and make a fool out of myself. It had been nearly ten years since Dusty and I had shared a table. By the ease with which he held the paddle in his hands and the quick way he had agreed to make a pie if he lost...I had to assume he was good. Really good.
“I don’t remember you being a leftie,” I said, nodding toward the hand he held his paddle in.
