He lifted his glass. “Right. Fast one.”
I smiled because hitting a man in his own den before Christmas dinner seemed like poor form.
Isa’s hand slid into mine.
This time, I held on.
Tight.
Dinner was worse.
Not because the food was bad.
The food was excellent in the way catered food was excellent when nobody at the table had touched a pan. Beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes piped into some kind of decorative shape, salad with pears and candied pecans, rolls glossy with butter. Not Christmas exactly. Not home. More like a hotel had been asked to interpret warmth for wealthy people.
Trent sat at one end of the dining table. Mrs. Calloway sat at the other. Isa and I were placed side by side, which should have helped except her mother kept looking at me like she had discovered a dessert menu no one else knew about.
“So Drew,” Mrs. Calloway said, leaning toward me over her wineglass, “Isa tells us you had quite the season.”
“She did?”
Isa took a sip of water and avoided my eyes.
“She did not say enough,” Mrs. Calloway continued. “But I looked you up.”
Of course she did.
“I hope the internet was kind.”
“Oh, very.” Her smile widened. “The internet has been very kind to you.”
Isa coughed lightly.
I put a hand on her knee under the table because if I didn’t touch her, I was going to get up and leave before dessert.
Mrs. Calloway’s gaze dropped.
She saw the movement.
Her eyes brightened.
Like contact was proof.
Like we were a campaign going well.
“Stanford football,” she said. “Possible NFL future. Montgomery family. My goodness, Isa.”
“Mom,” Isa warned softly.
“What?” Mrs. Calloway’s lashes fluttered. “I’m proud of you.”
My stomach turned.
Proud of you.
For what?
For sitting beside me?
