“I thought you’d be in the Boathouse,” Zachary says.
Andrew guides him to sit between us and closes the door with a gentle click. “There’s nowhere to hide out in the Boathouse.”
Zachary sounds dejected. “That’s what Uncle Ricky said.”
“Where’s Kennedy?” I ask.
“Still looking.” Zachary’s dark eyes shine when he looks at me over his shoulder. “But don’t call her a loser, okay?”
“I would never,” I assure him.
Over the top of Zachary’s head, Andrew and I stare at each other. I feel hot and achy all over. Unsatisfied and jittery.
“To be continued?” he whispers.
Oh, without question.
chapter eighteen
Andrew pulls out a chair for me when we get to the table, and I have to do a mental double take, trying to figure out if this is normal behavior. Have we ever reached the table in unison before, and if so, has Andrew pulled out my chair for me? A restrained laugh is still shining in his eyes and I know he wants to give me so much crap for being patently uncool right now, but does he not still feel my mouth on his? I certainly still feel the imprint of his kiss.
Benny catches my eye and slowly raises a single brow. I look away.
Objectively, dinner is terrible. The table is cluttered with plates of unidentifiable food: a mass of red and brown that I suspect is an attempt at meat sauce, a bowl of pasty white noodles all clumped together. Charred garlic bread cut into uneven chunks. Limp, suffering greens drowning under what must be a cup of ranch dressing.
The kitchen looks like a bomb went off, Miles and Theo have broken at least four dishes, and I know I’m going to have to clean the mess up later, but fuck me if it isn’t the best meal I’ve ever had. Andrew said to be continued! I’d happily eat glue right now.
“Seriously,” I sing, “this is delicious.”
Andrew’s elbow makes a gentle nudge to my side.
Ricky takes about a teaspoon of meat sauce and passes the platter on. “What does everyone feel like doing tonight?”
I nearly choke on a bite, and Andrew politely pats my back, answering with a casual “We could play Clue?”
“Ooooh.” Mom likes this idea. “We haven’t played Clue yet.”
“We haven’t been here that long,” I remind her—and myself. Frankly, it feels like it’s already been a month. I quickly do the math: seven days of original holiday, plus another six in the Land of Repeats.
The sauce makes its way around the table. Zachary mimes throwing up when it moves in front of him, and Aaron doesn’t even chastise his son. Instead, he studies the sauce suspiciously before offering a vague “Probably should take a pass since I’m on a diet,” and then hands it to Dad, bypassing Kyle entirely.
I’m sure he’s trying to save his husband from having to eat it, but Kyle chases it with a hand. “Come on now, I have to work for these curves.” Everyone laughs—because Kyle is nothing but muscle and sinew—and Aaron apologizes with a kiss.
The moment is so simple and sweet. I look away in time to catch Mom and Dad exchanging a knowing look. Dad tucks his chin to his chest, his shoulders shaking.
“Okay.” I point between them. “What’s happening here?”
“When I was barely pregnant with you,” Mom explains with suppressed laughter, “I asked your dad if I looked pregnant yet and he said, ‘No, it just looks like you’re letting yourself go a little.’ ”
Dad covers his eyes. “As soon as the words were out, I wanted to drag them back in.”
“You’d think a man who interacts with pregnant women for a living would be smarter,” Ricky teases him, and then immediately shrinks at the wry look from his wife. “Oh no.”
Lisa points an accusing finger at her husband. “Do you remember when I started taking that pottery class at night, over at the U?”
Ricky slides lower in his chair, letting out a giggling and ashamed “Yes.”
She turns to the rest of us. “I told him I felt so old and frumpy around all these young college girls, and he said, ‘That’s okay, honey, I love you anyway.’ ”
Everyone laughs at this, and Theo lets out a groaning “Dad, no.”
Ricky turns to his son. “Are you kidding me? You got a call from a girl the other day and couldn’t remember who she was.”
“I didn—!” Theo starts, but Ricky holds up a hand.
“When we were here over Thanksgiving, what did you have hiding in your closet after Grandma left?”
Both Andrew and I go very, very still.
Theo closes his eyes, pretending to be embarrassed by this. “A woman.”
“A woman,” Ricky repeats. “Just hanging out in your closet waiting for us to finish eating.” Surprised laughter breaks out at the table, but inside, I feel like I’ve dodged the world’s largest bullet. “Theo, you are in no way prepared to give me shit about anything.”
“Earmuffs,” Aaron mutters to the twins, who belatedly clap their hands over their ears.
Miles is the last to get over his laughter about all of this, and Theo turns to him, teasing, “At least I’ve got game, bro.”
To my brother’s credit, he doesn’t look fazed by this in the slightest. “I’m seventeen. Am I supposed to be hiding people in my closet?”
“No,” Mom and Dad say in unison.
“Mae and Andrew are awfully quiet over there . . .” Lisa singsongs.
The entire room goes still, and every gaze swings our way. I look up from where I’m cutting my spaghetti into smaller clumps and realize Andrew is making nearly the same Who, me? expression to my right.
“I’m sorry, what?” Andrew says through a bite of salad.
“Oh, we’re just talking about how above reproach you two are,” Dad says, and Mom looks undeniably proud.
“These two certainly aren’t sneaking around, hiding booty calls in their bedrooms,” Ricky chides Theo.
While I struggle to swallow down a bite of gluey noodles, Andrew nonchalantly spears a piece of lettuce, saying, “That is technically correct.”
“Mae would have to date for that to happen,” Miles says, and I glare at him.
“Your sister is not interested in ‘booty calls,’ ” Dad says, bringing a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth before reconsidering.
My brother drops his fork in disgust. “Can everyone stop saying ‘booty call’?”
I feel Andrew’s foot come over mine under the table and am suddenly very, very interested in the composition of the meat sauce, blurting, “This is so unique, Theo, how did you make it?”
Flattered, he waxes happily about frying the meat, dumping in canned tomatoes, finding some dried herbs in the pantry. The conversation moves on, and I’m able to mostly tune it out . . . which is good because it’s taking nearly all of my energy to not be completely focused on Andrew’s every movement next to me. I would not be good for any conversation right now.
I think he’s intentionally brushing elbows with me, but it’s hard to know, because he’s left-handed and I’m right-handed. But then I’m thinking about hands, and fingers, and the way he gripped my leg, pulling it over his hip before rocking against me.