Beside him, Ray is tucking his elbow back in.
“Sssailing,” Benji course corrects. “Mm-hmm. Maybe it’s the sailing. And all that vitamin D from the sun.”
Claire picks up her glass of wine, smirking wickedly. “That’s odd. I didn’t know you’d been sailing. There has been a lot of sex, though. And vitamin D. If the ‘D’ stands for ‘dick.’”
Everyone roars with laughter.
Benji high-fives her across the table. “Dude. I fucking love you.”
If the L-word makes her uncomfortable, she doesn’t show it. Me, on the other hand? I’m squirming in my seat.
The conversation flows naturally from topic to topic, and as the night progresses and Claire connects so well with my best buds, I can’t help but find myself more and more relieved. Meddling thoughts worm their way into my mind as I tip back my second glass of Malbec.
Visions of more meals shared with the woman beside me and my closest friends and their significant others. Our children wreaking havoc on the property.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me and tossing those ridiculous thoughts away.
“Sorry,” I announce as I scoot my chair back. “It’s my folks.”
I stride for the living room so I can talk to them without disturbing the ongoing conversation.
“Mom?” I say. “Is everything okay?”
Instead of being greeted by her familiar voice, I’m greeted by Bea’s cries.
Instantly, my dad instincts kick into gear. “What’s wrong?”
If my daughter is sick or injured while I’m not there, I don’t know how I’ll forgive myself. I’m an idiot for sending her away for a week while I gallivant around like a fucking bachelor. God, I’m so selfish.
“Everyone is okay, honey,” my mom soothes in her trademarked Jewish Mother voice. “We just have a homesick little girl.”
Relief floods my veins. Okay. She’s not hurt. She’s not sick. Just sad. While it’s gut-wrenching, it’s not an emergency.
“Come here, Dolly,” Mom says. “Daddy’s on the phone.”
Her sobs and sniffles get louder, and then her breath hitches. “D-daddy?”
“Hi, Dolly. I’m here,” I murmur, turning around. “What’s going on?”
From the table, four sets of eyes scrutinize me, my friends likely noting my concern.
In the most pitiful delivery I’ve ever heard, my daughter whimpers, “I want to come home.”
My heart pinches sharply. “Aw, it’s okay,” I tell her. “You have two more nights with Mimi and Papa. Did you have fun with Uncle Ezra, Lee Lee, and Kane the other day? I heard you made French toast casserole and friendship bracelets.”
Typically, redirecting the conversation works with her, though this time she’s undeterred.
“I… want… to… come… home… now,” she says through racking sobs.
I run my fingers through my hair. Fuck. I’ve been drinking, so there’s no way I can pick her up tonight, and Ezra borrowed my parents’ car to take Kane on a mini road trip. I’d ask Jack and Natalie, but neither feels comfortable driving at night these days.
“Is Claire gone?” she rasps.
“What?”
“Is Claire still at home?”
Home. It’s like a punch to the gut. She says it like this is Claire’s home too. Though to a five-year-old, I suppose it seems that way.
