“Turn it over,” Hap said.
I turned over the photo. On the back, it was marked with block lettering, in pen. “Brax, 13 months.”
I grinned. “You called me Brax back then?”
He nodded. “Drove your mother insane. She said it wasn’t your name. That’s why she wanted to name your brother Brandon and not Brayden. She knew if it was Brayden, I’d call you Brax and him Bray. She knew I wouldn’t call your brother Bran, so she picked Brandon.”
“That’s funny,” Anna said.
“I never knew that,” I admitted.
We continued going through photos long into the night. When we finally retired to bed, I’d resurrected many memories from my past.
I’d also learned several things about my father, mother, and my brother.
And a lot about what I wanted my future to hold.
Anna
I stretched my left arm toward Braxton, who was seated at my side. “Would you pass the salad, please?”
He lifted the bowl and placed it between us. “There you go. It’s good, huh?”
It consisted of raw cauliflower, pickled red onions, bacon, and a creamy parmesan dressing. It was simple, but I couldn’t stop eating it.
“It is,” I said. “I like that recipe. I got it from Chrissy Teigen’s Twitter. She said she loved it.”
“Does she follow you?”
I forked a piece of cauliflower into my mouth. “I think so.”
“You don’t know?”
“She does.” I gave him an apologetic look. “I don’t think it’s good to brag about such things.”
“There’s a difference between walking into a bar, sitting down, and saying, ‘Oh, look, Chrissy Teigen sent me a personal message,’ to the bartender, and answering a question I asked you.”
“Okay. Chrissy Teigen follows me.”
“I think it’s good that you’ve established a faithful following,” he said. “It might come in handy someday.”
“Like when?”
He shrugged. “You never know.”
I picked at my salad, and then at the chicken. The home seemed quiet. Empty. Eerily lonely.
“It seems weird,” I said, gesturing to Hap’s seat. “Not having Hap here.”
“He’s not big on chicken, anyway, so it’s all for the better,” he said. “Wonder what they’re eating?”
Hap was having dinner at Marge’s. After two weeks of sharing afternoon tea, they spent a week talking in the evenings while taking short walks. Eventually, Marge invited him over for dinner. I thought it was cute, but I really wanted to be a part of it. It frustrated me that I didn’t get to see them together.
“Maybe we can include her in our Sunday dinners in the future,” I said. “What do you think? Maybe, like every other week or something?”
“Okay by me,” Braxton said.
“They’re supposed to be holding a press conference on Monday about lifting the stay at home order. Did you see that?”
He nodded. “Pratt told me.”
“If they do, what are you going to do?”
He continued to eat his chicken without skipping a beat. “About what?”
“About everything?”
He paused. “Like?”
“Work? Home? Me? You? Sunday Dinners? Hap?”
The shoveling of food commenced. With a mouth full of salad and a forkful of chicken, he shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Nothing, probably.”
“Nothing?” I lowered my fork and raised my brows. “What do you mean, nothing?”
He poked the chicken in his mouth. “Nothing.”
I slapped his bicep with the back of my hand. “Can you stop eating for a minute?”
He gave me a dismissive glance. “Sure.” He set his fork down and wiped his hands on his napkin. “What?”
“You’re going back to work, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t decided.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What? Why? What’s—”
“I like this,” he said, glancing around the dining room. “It’s nice. Spending time together. Having a family. I didn’t realize how much I needed this until I got it. Now that I’ve got it, I don’t know that I’m willing to give it up.”
“I’m going to have to do something. I’ve got a little nest egg, but I don’t want to—”
“Look,” he said. “If you want to work, that’s fine. I’ve got enough money for both of us, so there’s nothing to worry about when it comes to finances.”
“Why haven’t we talked about this?” I asked.
“We’re talking about it now, aren’t we?”
“We’re talking about it because I pressed the issue.”
He reached for his fork. “Well, we’re talking about it, and that’s what matters.”
The thought of working at my leisure was exciting. I despised the thought of giving up my dealership in Oklahoma, but I hated thinking about leaving Los Angeles even more.
Being closer to the beach was my dream. I tried to contain myself. “Are you planning on staying here forever?” I asked dryly.
“California? I can’t think of living anywhere else.”
“No,” I replied. “Sherman Oaks.”
He made a funny face. “No.”
“You’re thinking about leaving?”
He poked a piece of chicken in his mouth. “Yeah. Been thinking about it.”
“Why haven’t we talked about that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Didn’t get to it yet, I guess.”
“All we talk about is what’s on television, how funny your dad is, and what’s for dinner,” I said. “We never talk about our future.”
He poked a piece of cauliflower in his mouth. “I’m not much of a talker.”
I widened my eyes as if he’d made a grand revelation. “Oh, really?”
“Go to hell,” he said, laughing over a mouthful of food. “I’ve never been a talker.”
“Well, it’s time to start,” I declared. “Where were you thinking about moving to?”
“Hadn’t given it a tremendous amount of thought.” He swallowed his food and glanced over his left shoulder. “What do you think about moving closer to the beach?”
My heart raced. I tried to hide my excitement. I nervously poked at a piece of chicken. “I think that would be nice. I like the beach. It’s peaceful. Are you thinking a little closer, or a lot closer?”
I slid my left hand under the table and crossed my fingers.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I was thinking if we could find a place in Santa Monica, Hermosa Beach, or Malibu that was on the beach that I might consider it.”
We?
I swallowed hard. “On the beach?”
“Not much sense in being close to the beach.” He chuckled. “Hell, we just as well stay in this shit-hole. I want to wake up and be able to look out my window and see it. I forgot how much I enjoyed the ocean until this pandemic started. Driving along the highway to San Diego once a week makes me want to get the hell out of here.”