“I was just about to make dinner,” Mom said, taking the bag from John. “I’m afraid I only have some leftover quiche. If Nora would’ve told me you were coming, I would’ve made a roast.”
“I don’t want to impose,” John said, leaning against the counter and smiling over the island at me.
“Papperlapap,” Mom said, playfully waving him off. “I can’t even remember the last time Nora brought a boyfriend home.”
What a blatant lie. Mom probably kept a logbook of all my relationships.
As they stood together in the kitchen, laughing like they were old friends, it reminded me of when I brought Otis home. It felt comfortable and easy—with the addition of a fluttering heart. That...was new.
It was one thing to spend the night tangled up in sheets. It was an entirely different thing seeing him in my childhood home. This was personal. Intimate in a different way.
Without being asked, John helped Mom open a bottle of wine.
I sat in my usual chair, Mom retrieving her good wine glasses for us. I felt John brush past me and settle into the narrowseating nook beside me—instead of opposite me. From his perspective, it was probably the normal thing to do, but?—
I tensed and placed my hand on his arm as he sat.
“What?” he asked, maybe mistaking the gesture for pretend girlfriend stuff. He intertwined our fingers. The feeling of his large hands wrapping around mine—a gesture that to the outside world might look like familiarity—was still a startling experience for me. My skin tingled under his touch, and I forgot what I was about to say.
But it was too late. Mom turned towards us, spotting John like a wolf in the sheep’s den. Her frail shoulders tensed. Her knuckles turned white as the wine glasses trembled in her hand.
“Is everything okay?” John asked, attention shifting between me and my mom. His smile had turned cautious.
Mom’s eyes flicked to our intertwined hands, then it was as if I had switched a channel on her TV. She nodded slowly, like she’d woken from a daydream, and looked between us. The lines around her mouth softened.
“Of course.” She set down the wine glasses—one for me, one for herself, and one for John, sitting in Dad's chair.
Something like hope bloomed inside me.
“Ah,eine Sekunde, why don’t I get the nice cutlery?” Mom said, despite my immediate protest.
As she left the room, John leaned over to me. I was still holding his hand.
“That’s Dad’s seat. The one you’re sitting in,” I whispered. He went to get up immediately, but I stopped him. “No, don’t. It’s fine. She...seems okay. Oddly enough.” I nodded towards the picture of me and Dad on the shelf above the dining nook. “We just don’t talk about him. Ever.”
John glanced at the picture of Dad and me, a photo we had taken by the sea. I was about nine, standing on the Baltic coast of Germany. White dunes and chalk cliffs in the background.Dad was holding a rock he wanted to take home for his garden. I remember Mom telling him not to be silly, that we didn’t have a garden, just a balcony. This was a few years before we moved from Berlin to the States. He never got around to building the pond and decorating it with his rocks.
“You look like him,” John said, smiling.
I frowned at the picture. “I know. It makes Mom sad.” I fiddled with my wine glass.
He nodded at the photograph. “You have the same coloring, and the way you smile...” He lifted a finger to my cheek. “There’s a small crease here that forms when you’re happy.”
The trail of his finger felt more intimate than it should have. “And here,” he gently lifted his finger to the bridge of my nose, trailing it down, sending sparks down my spine. “Your nose crinkles like a cat when you truly laugh.” He flicked it, and I yelped, slapping him playfully. He’d managed to break the odd tension that filled the room every time the conversation even hinted at Dad.
Mom appeared with a handful of real silver forks. She’d put on a German radio station that was currently playing Helene Fischer.
“So, John, how was Italy?” Mom asked as we dug into the quiche.
I nearly choked on mine.
“Pardon?” John asked around a mouthful.
My hand slipped under the table and onto his leg, squeezing.
He gave a sort of grunt, which could’ve also been mistaken for a throat clearing. “Uhm, great, very…Italian.”
I snorted bubbles into my wine glass.
