“It all looks delicious,” Wyatt says, practically drooling over his plate. “Thanks again for having me over.”
Daddy says grace, blessing our family and friends, the food we’re about to eat, and those less fortunate. We end with a moment of silence for our own reflections, and a sign of the cross.
If I had to guess, by the look of discomfort on his face as he mimics the rest of us touching two fingers first to his forehead, then to his chest, left shoulder, and finally the right, I’d say Wyatt wasn’t raised Catholic. It probably isn’t something most would take note of, but you could count on one hand the people in Moss Pointe who aren’t. It’s just one more thing that sets him apart from the rest. I find him utterly adorable.
“Amen,” we all say in unison, and just like that, the signature confidence that oozes from Wyatt’s every pore has returned.
Dad immediately strikes up conversation with our guest, making plans for the placement of the new pews and altar while we scarf down an obscene amount of food. Having to smell all the delicious aromas on empty stomachs apparently made us all ravenous.
It was Momma who set the table, so it’s not surprising in the least that Wyatt is seated to my right. My mother just happens to be directly across from us. Her interfering brow darts for the ceiling every time she catches me staring at his profile.
“Hey, Priss,” I say, jerking my attention from the man beside me when I’m once again busted ogling him like a piece of meat. “What’s this I hear about a father-daughter dance the Friday before Christmas break?”
She drops her half-eaten roll back onto her plate, eyes wide, and brings her shoulders to her ears.
“The email Principal Wyler sent out said we had to buy tickets by this coming Monday. You haven’t so much as mentioned it.”
My dad preens. “Sounds like we got us a date, little missy.” He sits up taller, adjusting his signature black tie in a manner that suggests he considers himself to be the luckiest man alive. The way he dotes on my kid is more than I could have ever hoped for. While she may not have a father of her own, she’s certainly not lacking for love or attention.
“I’m not going,” Prissy announces, slouching in her seat as she braces for my attack.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, my voice wobbling. “Of course you are.”
“Serious as a heart attack,” she assures me. “I’m really not.”
“Oh, but you have to go,” I practically beg, dropping my fork with a jarring clank. My mind goes straight to the junior and senior homecomings and proms I missed out on myself. I know she’s just in first grade, and I’m likely being ridiculous, but I don’t want her to forego anything life has to offer, especially at the hand of that dickwad who walked out on her before she was even born.
“Ugh…” The force of her groan is one that would top the Richter Scale. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“You will?” I eye her skeptically. My stubborn as hell daughter is never this easy to sway.
“Yep.” She beams. “I’ll go, as long as Wyatt takes me.”
When I accepted an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, the last thing I expected was to be put on the spot like this.
As my mouth opens and closes, searching for breath, I’m realizing the true value of what it means to become speechless. While everyone around me is sputtering as they try to find a way to let the child down easy, I can’t seem to formulate a single sound.
“This is a family event, Prissy.” Hank is tripping all over himself in his attempt to make this right without crushing the little one’s spirit. “You know Paw-Paw loves going to these things with you.”
The little girl folds her arms on the tabletop and looks the old guy dead on. “No offense, Paw, but you’re kinda…old.”
His mouth falls open in mock horror.
“Priss. It’s fine. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Whitney rushes out, blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. “You can’t ask that of Mr. Wy—”
“I’ll do it.” I don’t know who’s more surprised by my outburst, Whitney or me.
“You will?” Whit’s head jerks back with surprise at the same time that a huge smile covers Prissy’s face.
A lifetime of feeling out of place over my own lack of parents pushes me to make what’s probably a very rash decision. But I know what it’s like always being the odd man out. I understand her desire to fit in, to not be the one on the arm of the old guy for once.
“I’d be honored.” I dab at my mouth with the cloth napkin in my lap and clear my throat. “I mean…” I turn to my left, locking eyes with the fidgeting woman beside me. “As long as it’s okay with you, of course.”
“Say, yes, Momma,” Prissy begs when the cat seems to catch hold of Whitney’s tongue. “I’ll even wear a dress!”
“I don’t know…” She looks to her parents for guidance, both of whom just shrug their shoulders and smile.
“Makeup!” Prissy shouts, pulling out the big guns to bribe her mother to allow it. “You can put on my makeup.” She laces her little hands in front of her face, fanning those baby blues like a pro.
I locate Whitney’s hand beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “She’s so excited,” I murmur. “Let me do this for her.”
“Fine,” the flustered woman says. “But I will be taking you up on that makeover, Priscilla Louise.”
“Fine!” Echoing her mother, she pumps her fist into the air a few times. “I’m gonna have the hottest dad at the dance.”
I won’t even lie; my chest swells with that comment.
Whitney’s head falls into her hand with a loud groan. “He’s a friend of the family, Prissy, not a dad…yours or anyone else’s.”
“Potato—tomato,” she says, waving her mom off. The kid is bouncing around like a little jumping bean, suddenly unable to keep her bottom in her seat. It feels good knowing I’m the one responsible for her excitement.
“You’re not, right?” Whit turns to me and asks, her voice laden with unease.
“Not what? Hot? I’m offended.”
“A dad! This is crazy, I don’t even know enough about you to answer that with confidence.”
I choke on a sip of Coke. “I have no children.”
“But you’re open to it, right?” The question comes from the busybody sitting across the table.
“Momma!” Whitney’s forehead lands on my shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she groans.
“Yeah,” I say, biting back a laugh. “Eventually, with the right woman, sure.”
“Hear that, Whit?” she gloats. “Said, he’s open to it.”
“I’d be open to being put up for adoption right about now.”
“Well,” Hank interrupts. “I hate to be the one to put an end to this titillating conversation, but I have a body waiting to be embalmed downstairs.” His chair screeches when he scoots back from the table. “Priss, you comin’?” He hooks a thumb toward the door.
“Can I, Momma?”