“Why don’t you ever help cook dinner?”
Brent scoffs. “Markhatesme in the kitchen. I’ll grill if he wants me to, but after his years running a kitchen, he’s far too picky to let me help him. I’m big and clumsy.”
“Ah, that makes sense.”
“Just like he stays out of the garage.” Brent shrugs his shoulders with a tender smile. “It’s good to have separate things that you’re good at. It makes me appreciate every meal he makes, and he appreciates every car I remodel. We have hobbies together, and hobbies separately. That’s the key to thirty years together.”
“Thirty?” I gasp, because I hadn’t ever done the math. Thatamount of time seems impossible and amazing all at the same time.
Brent’s lip twitches at the corner. “Thirty. I’ll take thirty more if he has that long in him though.”
“Thirty more years with you and I’ll need a Nobel Peace Prize,” Mark says as he marches to the dining table carrying a steaming glass dish full of what appears to be pasta. Tucker follows with a basket of garlic bread and a smile on his face. “Dinner’s ready,” Mark says, all while leveling his husband with a teasing glare.
“All right, we’re coming, we’re coming.” Brent stands with a groan, knees and joints popping off like fireworks. I don’t tease him because some day that’ll also be me.
I take a seat at the table beside Tucker but hold myself back from glancing over at him. The pasta smells like garlic and spices. Brent and Mark are some of the first people to cook me a home-cooked meal and welcome me at their table with love. Before Tucker returned, we’d talk about current events, cars, or just town shenanigans. His presence adds an unfamiliar element to the routine that I’m still learning.
“River told me that the lantern festival is still only at fifty percent,” Tucker says after we’ve all filled our plates with pasta.
Mark groans. “The festival has been getting harder and harder to sell out over the years. Marcia won’t admit it, but she’s getting older, and it’s a lot of responsibility. She needs a helper.”
Tucker lifts his hands with a laugh. “Don’t look at me. I’m not assistant material.”
“Don’t we know it,” Brent says with a teasing chuckle.
“River should just take it over,” Tucker says diplomatically.
Mark nods in agreement. “He’d run it like the Navy.”
Tucker eyes his father shrewdly. “Where’d you learn that phrase?”
Mark blinks quickly. “TikTok.”
Tucker groans loudly, then shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth to no doubt make himself remain quiet. I bite back a chuckle and take my own bite of pasta. It’s thick noodles, with a warm cheesy sauce and sun-dried tomatoes. I can hardly tell the noodles are gluten-free because they’re so perfectly cooked and the sauce is so perfectly flavored. I almost forget sometimes that Mark was a superstar chef at a Michelin-star restaurant for so much of his life, but it shows when he makes meals so comforting and delicious that it brings tears to my eyes.
Tucker taps my foot with his under the table and wiggles his eyebrows. “The garlic bread is gluten-free too.” He goes on to prove it to me by swiping a piece of the bread through the sauce and taking a large bite. A glob of sauce gets stuck on the corner of his mouth, making my blood heat to boiling. If we were alone, maybe I’d be brave enough to reach out and swipe it away, but I won’t. Instead I just point toward it, and he wipes it away with a furious blush.
Instead of drawing more attention to him, I grab a piece of garlic bread from the bowl and copy Tucker by swiping it through the rich cheese sauce on my plate.
“S’good,” I tell Mark through a mouthful of bread.
Mark chuckles and shakes his head as if I’m his own son. “Thank you.”
We eat in silence until we’re all full and push our plates away. Brent stands and picks up Mark’s plate, and I help by grabbing Tucker’s and my own, then follow him into the kitchen to rinse the plates off. We return to the table, only for Tucker to disappear into the kitchen like a man on a mission.He appears a few moments later with a plateful of double chocolate chip cookies.
He flushes and holds the plate out to me. “I baked them.”
I take one with a small smile. “I didn’t know you bake.”
“Cook, he cannot, but bake he can,” Mark sings as if it’s a well-known fact in their home.
Tucker flushes a brighter red, then sets the plate down at the center of the table, all while grumbling and taking a cookie for himself. The cookie is sweet and soft, tasting more like a small bite of gooey cake than a cookie.
Tucker leans toward me and whispers, “I thought it might make you feel better… because of Cupcake.”
I turn toward him, our faces inches apart, and my breath catches in my chest. We stare at each other for just a moment, caught in each other’s gaze.
“Thank you,” I whisper back, not knowing if the words are too big or too little for the moment. “Thank you,” I say again, lower this time.
