“Speaking of,” Susan said. “If I don’t get dinner on the table soon, John here is liable to start gnawing on the furniture.”
“No threat, just fact,” John replied, hauling himself up. “I’ve had my eye on that coffee table for years. Mahogany with a hint of polish? Mmm, delicious.”
Susan patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you put your appetite to better use and work your usual magic with the mashed potatoes? They turn out better under your supervision.”
Luke and I trailed behind them as they disappeared into the kitchen.
“How are you holding up?” he asked. “Not so bad, right? Should I keep the escape plans on standby or call them off for now?”
“I’m actually okay. You can shelve the emergency exits. Your parents are lovely.”
“They’re pretty amazing, aren’t they? See, I knew you’d be fine.”
Rising onto the balls of my feet, I pressed a quick peck to his lips. “Is this your diplomatic way of telling me I told you so?”
He wrapped an arm around me, drawing me closer and stealing another kiss. This one deeper. “It’s my way of telling you to trust in the irrefutable truth that you are a kind, witty,fascinating man, and only those with shriveled, mummified husks for souls could resist you.”
“That’s a graphic vote of confidence.”
“I do aim for accuracy and impact.”
“Boys, dinner’s ready! Hope you’re hungry!” Susan called.
Luke kissed me again before we filed into the kitchen.
“Take as much you want, and whatever we don’t finish I’ll be sending home with you,” Susan said.
The meal included tender roast, buttery rolls, and fluffy mashed potatoes, all complemented by roasted vegetables. It hit me once more that this was what a family full of love looked like—home-cooked meals where everyone gathered around the table, talking as they ate.
The closest equivalent in my house had been my mom dropping a pack of ramen or a box of microwave mac and cheese on the counter with a flat, “Here’s your food, figure it out,” before disappearing to who-knows-where.
“Thank you, this looks delicious,” I said as I sat down.
John carved a thick slice of roast and deposited it onto his plate. “I’ve got to admit, Suz, you outdid yourself this time. I half hoped you’d mess up the roast so I could lord it over you for once.”
“Dream on,” Susan said. “The day I mess up the roast is the day you learn to fold a fitted sheet.”
“I’ll have you know, I once folded a fitted sheet to near-rectangular perfection. It only took me two hours, a YouTube tutorial, and a mild existential crisis.”
Susan reached over to pat his hand. “And we’re all very proud of you, dear. We’ll put your certificate of mediocrity next to the macaroni art you made with the kids and hung on the wall in ninety-four.”
“You’re the one who decided to frame that culinary crime scene and include my contribution in the family art montage. I would’ve buried it in the trash.”
“What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.”
“That you are, my love. That you are.”
“While we’re talking about being sentimental, you know what we’re going to have to do after dinner?”
“No, Mom, not Scrabble.”
“How else are we going to integrate Oliver into the Walker family?” John asked.
“I like Scrabble,” I said.
“You say that now. But you’ve never played Scrabble with my family. You have not met the terror that is my mother. She cheats.”
“Sweetpea, strategic prowess and expansive vocabulary does not constitute cheating. Unlike some people, I don’t rely on imaginary words.”
