In between stirs, Jo reaches across the counter to a glass jarfilled with some kind of orange candy. When it’s almost to her mouth I see what it is. Orange slices. I didn’t even know orange slices were still around, but she has a jar full of them.
It’s impossible to be in the same room with Jo and not think of touching her. Everything in me wants to go to her, to help her prepare dinner, to wrap my arms around her in comfort. Anything to ease the ball of tension she’s visibly consumed by. But I know that’s the wrong thing to do, especially in front of our daughter. Instead, I help Abby with math, like I promised.
The girl is truly smart as a whip, catching on quickly with my explanations. Before we got started, she explained to me she’s only supposed to be in eighth grade, but in elementary school she was so bored her teacher suggested she be tested to skip a grade. I remember feeling bored in school at times, too, always the first to finish my work. That’s how I developed my love of reading. A book was always in my backpack, spine ready to be cracked open. If there was a negative to be said, it’d be that she keeps stopping mid-problem to ask me about Austin, and I have to steer us back to algebra. I don’t know what the kid will think once she finds out he’s her second cousin.
Before long, Jo slides on hummingbird oven mitts and begins pulling things from the stove. I take that as my cue to wrap this tutoring session up and head out.
“Let’s make this the last problem, then I’ll get out of you guys’ hair,” I tell Abby.
“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” Jo says, glancing at me from where she stands at the stove.
“Yeah, Mom always makes, like, double what we need,” Abby adds. “She has food trauma.”
Jo inhales sharply, spinning to face us.
“Abigail,” she says, flatly.
“You do! I heard you and Penny talking about it one time. I don’t know what you meant, but Penny was teasing you for bringing enough food for an army and you said, ‘Blame my food trauma,’” Abby says, complete with air quotes.
Closing her eyes, Jo takes a quick breath. When she opens them, a strained smile curves her lips.
“Tyler, I’d like for you to stay. There’s more than enough.”
“Would you, though?” I ask, eyebrows raised. Her face softens at my question.
“We all would. Please stay.”
“If you’re sure, I’d like that.” Turning to Abby, I hold up a hand for a high five. “Good job, kiddo. You nailed every problem we worked on.”
Abby slaps my hand with a small grin on her face and stands to clear her books from the table. She gathers plates and silverware, and Jo goes to call Jay in. Once everyone has washed their hands and plated their food, they all sit, leaving an empty chair between Jo and Abby.
Sitting around a dinner table eating homemade spaghetti and meatballs shouldn’t have an effect on me, and yet it does. Being a firm believer that life happens the way it’s meant to happen, I don’t like to play thewhat ifgame. Still, that doesn’t stop me from imagining what life would have been like had I been here all this time. I’d have seen Abby’s life from the beginning, and Jo would never have been alone because I’d have been at her side through it all. Then my eyes land on Jay, his sweaty blond curls and grin that looks an awful lot like his mom’s. This kid isn’t mine, but he is the reminder that everything happens when it’s meant to happen. And I refuse to take this opportunity with Jo, Abby, and Jay for granted.
“Okay, guys, whoops and poops.” Jo’s voice cuts through my musings.
I nearly choke on my water, unsure what she means. Jay and Abby both start talking at once, and Jay spins, shooting Abby a murderous glare. It takes all I’ve got not to laugh. I remember similar looks Cassie would shoot at Austin and vice versa. Mom would play referee while I looked on with silent amusement.
“Jay, you go first,” Jo directs, pointing her speared meatball his way.
Jay shoots Abby a satisfied look and turns back to Jo. From my peripheral vision, I catch Abby rolling her eyes.
“My whoop is…PE was free play today.”
“And your poop?” Jo asks.
Every time she says the word poop, Jay snickers.
“Parker said his dad might not be able to coach basketball. Something about his work schedule. Parker overheard him on the phone telling someone.”
“Well, crap, Jay. You’re really looking forward to being on the team. If Parker’s dad can’t, maybe another dad will step up.”
Jay shrugs and slurps a spaghetti noodle in his mouth.
“I could be your coach,” Jo teases.
“No offense, Mom, but that’s weird. The other coaches are dads.” Jay’s eyes turn downcast, disappointment etched into his features.
Jo swallows hard, but doesn’t flinch at the words. Jay’s only a kid, so I’m sure he doesn’t realize the effect they might have on his mom.
