My throat clenches. Of course they’re for Mom.
“Ah,” Lindy says—she’s not worried about my blubbering panic attack either. “That’s sweet of you. Right this way.”
“Right.” I nod. “This way.” I repeat her words. None of my own come to mind. I stand back, watching as Lindy, Wyatt, and Lucca all head toward the kitchen.
What. Is. Happening?
I told Lucca no movie. No dinner. We could be friendly, but that didn’t mean we’d be friends. It certainly didn’t mean we’d be hanging out. And now he’s here. For food. And who knows what else? I mean, last time he was here, the man removed his shirt. At a child’s party. He was just out there, pecs and biceps and abs—for anyone to see.
My breath hitches. I stand in the dim living room for another minute, my vision blurring into space, when a small, soft hand presses into mine. I blink, focusing my eyes, and peer down at Wyatt.
“Come on, Aunt Maggie. You’re missing Grandpa jumping up and down like that kid in line for Santa last year.”
I make it into the kitchen just in time for introductions. “Just a reminder,” Mom says. “Things were so hectic at the birthday party. I’m Wyatt’s grandma, Hailey.” She’s holding the bouquet Lucca brought. “And the super fan is my husband, Gordon.”
“But you can call them Grandma and Grandpa, if you want,” Wyatt says, and Lucca turns around to face us. “What would you call them in Brazil?”
“Portuguese,” I say, my throat tight.
“Yeah.” Wyatt gives one blond bobbing nod. “What would you call them in that?”
“Grandmother is Avó. Grandfather is Avô. But if you’re close and affectionate, like I was with my grandmother, you’d call her Vovó, and you’d call him” —he tilts his head to Dad, who is grinning like a ninny—“Vovô.”
“Aww,” Mom hums, looking like she’ll melt on the spot.
Is it so sweet that we should all turn to mush? He literally translated a word. Any bilingual person could have done that.
Even Dad is beaming over his translation, though.
“Maggie, sweetheart,” Mom says, but she’s still looking at Lucca. “Can you put these in a vase for me?” She holds the bouquet out toward me.
Two minutes in and that traffic-stopping smile has won them all over.
Twenty-Five
I’ve been very muchan observer the first fifteen minutes of this meal. Dad has asked Lucca a hundred questions, and Lucca has happily answered. Everyone hangs on his every word. Mom walks over with seconds for Lucca without even asking if he wants them.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. McCrae,” he says, with Mom’s second slice of meatloaf on his plate. “That’s plenty. I have to save room for pie.”
“Grandma!” Wyatt moans. “Don’t stuff him full. He needs to try banana cream pie for the very first time.”
“All right. All right,” Mom says, taking back the extra scoop of mashed potatoes she almost had on Lucca’s plate.
“Your family must be proud, with you playing at such a high level,” Dad says, his food hardly touched.
Lucca grins. The man has the straightest, whitest teeth I have ever witnessed. And I’m convinced he smiles so often because he loves showing them off. “Yes. As proud as you must be of Maggie’s athletic accomplishments.”
My face burns. It must be as pink as the flowers in Mom’svase. I liked it better when Dad was swooning over Lucca. No need to focus on me.
“Oh yes,” Dad says. “Our Maggie girl went far.”
“She’s still going far,” Lindy says. “She’s qualified to ref in the majors. They offered her a promotion. But she doesn’t want to be away from Wyatt that much. She’s chosen not to.”
And just like that, I grow warmer. I must be a maraschino cherry by now. And I don’t want Wyatt thinking I’m not playing soccer or officiating in the majors because ofhim. None of that is his fault. Lindy’s right when she says I made my own choices. “I like the minors,” I say.
“And she likes me,” Wyatt says. Well, he doesn’t seem guilt-ridden. Maybe my worried head can rest.
I plant a hand on top of his head, then lean over to kiss his cheek. “Iloveyou.”
