Tucker holds a store-bought pound cake in one hand and pushes his hair back with the other. “Uh...”
Last night, soon after my death drop, Tucker went home to check on his dad, and every other thought since then has been dedicated to trying to decide if I should text him. (The other thoughts were primarily about my groin muscles and disappointing tuxedo.)
“You made it!” Mom says as she rushes me from behind and pulls Tucker inside. She takes the pound cake from his hand. “Oh, now this will be lovely with some fresh berries and cream. Come, come, come. We were just about to eat.”
“Your mom wasn’t kidding about not letting me skip out on another invitation,” he whispers. “She blew up my phone all morning.”
I follow the two of them through the kitchen into the dining room, where we all sit down. I motion to the chair beside me for Tucker to sit in. Meanwhile, actual fireworks are going off in my stomach. Tucker is here. At family dinner. By invitation of my mother!
“Grammy, this is Tucker,” I tell her.
She grins. Today she’s wearing a red-and-white gingham romper that comes down to her knees. The collar islined in rhinestones and she wears matching sparkly red sneakers.
“I can see where Waylon gets his good taste from,” Tucker says. “Thank you for your help with our coveralls.”
Grammy lets out a girlish giggle. “Oh, now, Waylon, this boy is good. A real charmer. You should—”
And right as she’s about to say something I’m sure will embarrass me, Dad comes in with a tray of burgers and hot dogs. “Tuck!” he says. “So glad you could make it.”
“I’m glad too, for the record,” Clem says. “Though I would have invited Hannah had I known that we were inviting... people.”
“Hannah is always welcome, dear,” Mom says. “But I wanted to invite Tucker since he and Waylon are working so closely together on prom court and as a thank-you for working on my car.”
I want to tell her she could have at least told me, but I don’t want to risk Tucker feeling awkward.
“Well, you’re welcome,” Tucker says quietly, blush creeping up his neck.
The burgers and hot dogs are overdone, which is pretty on par for Dad’s lackluster grilling skills, but Mom’s mac and cheese is good enough to elicit an audible groan from Tucker.
“Secret’s in the mustard powder,” she says before he can even manage to compliment her.
“So, dear boy,” Grammy says while everyone either finishes up or decides to abandon ship on their plates, “where do you see life taking you after graduation?”
“Ugh.” Clem flops in her seat. “Grammy, you know that’s the actual worst question you can ask a high school senior, right?”
“I’m trying to get to know our mysterious guest,” Grammy says defensively.
Tucker waves his hands. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I, uh, don’t have much of a plan beyond taking care of my dad and taking care of his shop.”
The thought of him rotting in that dingy little garage makes me feel hopeless. I want to live in a world where Tucker can dream as big and ridiculously as he wants.
Grammy’s expression softens. “Is he ill?”
Dad clears his throat. “Mom, don’t pry.”
“He’s got a drinking problem, ma’am,” Tucker says as simply as he would say his dad has brown hair or is short or any other fact you can discern from a quick look at someone.
We all fall quiet. And it’s not because what Tucker has said is embarrassing or uncomfortable, but he says it in such a matter-of-fact, immovable way. Like it’s a thing that could never possibly change.
“My mother did as well,” Grammy says.
I perk up at that. I never knew that. I never met my great-grandmother, but I’ve heard so much about her that she’s always felt real and tangible to me, but no one ever told me she was an alcoholic. Judging by the confusion on Clem’s face, she didn’t know either.
When I look to Dad, he nods.
Grammy and Tucker share a quick look, like they’re in some kind of club.
This got heavy. Fast.
