“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Rosen,” he says, all formal.
“Deborah,” she says. “You can call me Deborah. Or Mom, if you want, but only if it’s not weird.”
He says, “Deborah, then,” but I see the way the word hangs in his mouth, like maybe he’s thinking about it for later.
I set the wine down, and Maya is already pouring a glass for herself and topping off Darius’s with what looks suspiciously like the good stuff. She winks at me, and I realize this is a setup.
The food is already on the table, and I can smell the brisket from the doorway.
There’s kugel with that perfect browned crust, challah from her own bakery, the one she's run for twenty years, each loaf braided by hand because she says machines "don't understand bread", green beans with slivered almonds, and a weird salad that Maya made and will insist we all eat.
The tablecloth is blue and white, and the candlesticks are lit even though we’re not doing the prayers yet.
Neil is at the end of the table, already seated, wearing a flannel that matches the tablecloth and glasses that make him look like he’s grading finals even when he’s off-duty. He nods at me, then at Darius, and says, “Ash says you’re a hell of a goalie.”
Darius grins, shrugs. “Ash is a hell of a left wing.”
The approval is subtle, Dad just smiles, then offers a handshake so firm it’s like he’s making sure Darius’s hand is real. “Good to have you, son.”
I catch Maya’s eye, and she is grinning like she orchestrated the whole thing.
The first few minutes are chaos.
Maya yells at me for not bringing flowers, my mom asks Darius how his parents are doing, and Neil just drinks his wine and makes small talk about the Mariners.
The food gets passed, Darius takes more than anyone except maybe Maya, and I’m so tense I can barely swallow.
Then my mom clears her throat.
“We usually say something before dinner,” she says, “but tonight I just want to say I’m proud of you, Ash. Not because you won, not because of what’s happened this year. Because you brought someone home you care about. That takes guts. And I want you to know it means everything to me.”
I’m about to say something snarky, but the lump in my throat is too big. Darius squeezes my knee under the table, and I manage to nod.
Maya raises her glass. “To Ash. And to Darius, for surviving the Rosen family hazing.”
Everyone laughs, even Neil, and we clink glasses. The wine is awful, but I don’t care.
Dinner is loud, messy, and exactly like every family dinner I grew up with. Maya tells a story about how she once broke my nose with a plastic hockey stick, and Mom one-ups her with a story about me getting stitches in my eyebrow after trying to jump off the garage roof.
Neil asks Darius about Oakland, about his parents, about whether he misses California. Darius answers, careful at first, but as the conversation warms up he starts telling stories about his mom’s cooking, his dad’s obsession with VC funding, and the time he got suspended from school for fighting with a kid who called him “Darius the Virus.”
The food is incredible.
I eat until I can barely move, then eat more. Maya tries to get Darius to explain goalie strategy, and he does, drawing plays ona napkin while Mom watches like she’s seeing the Mona Lisa get painted live.
By dessert, I feel something shift. Not in the room, but in me. Like the tension has finally burned off and there’s just the warmth left. Mom brings out the kugel, still hot, and it’s so good Darius actually moans out loud.
Maya makes fun of him, but I can tell she’s already adopted him.
After, Neil takes out his phone and pulls up YouTube. He finds a video from my peewee days, me at age ten, helmet too big, jersey too long, scoring a wraparound and wiping out into the boards.
Everyone laughs.
I want to crawl under the table and die, but Darius is watching the screen with this look on his face, soft, private, like he's seeing something nobody else can.
He catches me staring and mouths, "You were adorable." I mouth back, "I will end you." He grins, and I know, with absolute certainty, that he's in love with me.
The ten-year-old version, the bloody-faced version, and whatever version is sitting here turning the color of borscht.
