The pizza is served, and it’s hot and delicious from Iggy’s. “Wilby, good thinking,” I tell him as I take a bite.
Wilby goes first. “Two queens,” he announces confidently, sliding two cards forward.
Cal squints at him. “Bullshit.”
Wilby flips the cards, not queens.
Those two go to war over this. It’s hilarious to watch.
I laugh so hard I almost drop my cards. My dad watches this all quietly, chewing his pizza, eyes darting between us like he’s studying a new species.
My turn. “Three sevens,” I say sweetly.
Wilby narrows his eyes. “That smile tells me everything.”
“Bullshit,” Cal says immediately.
I flip my cards. Three actual sevens.
Wilby groans. “I don’t like this version of you.”
My dad clears his throat. “Can I play?”
Wilby freezes. “Are you familiar with the rules?”
“I am,” my dad says. “I used to play in college.”
I blink. “You did?”
“Yes,” he says dryly.
Wilby slides him his cards. “Welcome to the table.”
My dad plays conservatively at first. Quiet. Careful. Then Cal calls him on a move.
“Bullshit,” Cal says calmly.
My dad looks offended. “You don’t even know what I put down.”
“That’s why it’s fun,” Wilby says.
My dad flips his cards. He was lying.
Wilby whoops. “Sir. I respect you so much right now.”
My dad actually laughs and acts surprised.
As the game goes on, the lines blur. We lose track of whose turn it is. Wilby accuses everyone of cheating. Cal keeps winning with infuriating ease. I get called out three times in a row and swear vengeance.
My dad watches Cal closely. Watches the way he leans in. The way his hand finds mine without thought. The way he lets me win one round on purpose and then smirks like I won’t notice.
At one point, my dad says to Cal, “You’re very good at this.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the game or marriage. Either way, it’s the truth.
When the cabin lights dim, and the city lights appear beneath us, the laughter softens. My dad grows quieter again, gaze fixed on the window across the aisle. He looks as if he’s thinking through everything.
After landing, we stand to deplane. Cal reaches up without effort, muscles in his arms flexing as he pulls our bags from the overhead bin. His broad shoulders fill the narrow space, and for a second, it feels like the plane was built too small for him.
