We stand together, and now the awkwardness decides to kick in. Where do I put my hands? On April’s waist? Her shoulders? Just hanging at my sides like a weirdo?
She seems to be having the same crisis.
Claudia physically adjusts us, putting my arm around April’s shoulders and pulling her closer to my side.
The world tilts slightly when she settles against me, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything—her lilac scent, the way her hand rests naturally on my chest, how her breathing syncs with mine without either of us trying.
“There,” Claudia says, stepping back as she holds her fingers in an invisible frame. “Much better.”
Mom calls, “Say, ‘Cheese,’”
But this proximity is like coming up for air after being underwater, crushed beneath breaking wave after wave of denial. April fits perfectly under my arm, her head just reaching my shoulder. Like we were supposed to be this way.
My heart shifts into overdrive, but outwardly I’m frozen, terrified that if I move or breathe wrong, she’ll realize how perfectly she fits here and pull away.
“Move closer together. You’re not dogs. Dogs bite. You’re in love!” Mr. Grayson from next door yells from the porch.
Everyone laughs, and April buries her face against my chest, her shoulders shaking with a fit of giggles.
My body wants to take a bath in that sound, in her scent. My arm tightens slightly, my thumb traces an absent circle on her side, and angle my head toward hers. This isn’t practice orperformance. This is muscle memory for something that’s never happened before.
If only this could be forever.
Mealtime is a gauntlet of questions from well-meaning neighbors and relatives.
“Where did you two meet?” Mrs. Patterson, a neighbor, asks.
April answers, “Back in high school.”
“Gordie was missing,” I say. “And she came to the rescue.”
My sister frowns. “I miss Gordie.”
“You always said he got hair all over your clothes,” one of the twins says.
“Good thing she doesn’t only wear black anymore,” my other brother says.
Claudia shoots eye daggers. “It was a phase!”
Aunt Louise asks me, “Is she a good cook?”
Before we can answer, my aunt offers a long missive on the importance of feeding a man well.
April says, “Actually, Clark teases that I have the diet of a toddler. He’s the chef between the two of us.” Before Aunt Louise can offer her opinion, April has the table captivated by all her favorite dishes that I prepare. Some of them are even news to me. The appreciation feels good.
Mom beams. “A pro hockey player and a cook. I’d say he’s a keeper.”
“He’s definitely going to make some?—”
The tips of my ears heat, but when April doesn’t finish her sentence, the room feels disturbingly quiet.
“I mean, yeah, he’s a keeper.”
Was she going to say that I’m going to make some woman happy one day? Or something else? Some yummy meals? My exhale comes out choppy.
Bart asks, “Who’s the messier one?”
We both point at each other, laugh, and then gesture to the dogs.
