Decker inhales and exhales but says nothing.
“Okay, let’s move on for the moment. Junior year puts you at what, twenty-one?”
Foster and Decker look at each other. A quick look, half a second at most, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know that some looks between people carry the weight of entire conversations they’ve never had out loud. This is one of those. I make a note and wait.
“We had a good stretch junior year,” Foster says. “Our teams were doing well. We were both playing the best baseball of our lives up to that point. The draft was coming.” Something crosses his face. “Things were… good.” Foster’s thumb goes still on the back of the couch.
“Junior year was when…” Decker fills in the way he always does, trying to make things easier for Foster.
Something in my gut says Foster needs to be the one to admit whatever happened to ruin their relationship. “Foster, what happened junior year?”
He looks at me, at his brother, and exhales. “That’s when I started dating Penelope.”
It’s like the name sucks all the oxygen from the room, and tension leaks in from every crevice to fill the space.
Foster doesn’t look at Decker.
Decker doesn’t look at Foster.
I do my best to hide my own shock at this revelation.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Penelope
* * *
I try to calm the anxiety coursing through my body by placing the turmeric after the thyme on my spice rack.
It’s just dinner. I’ll cook while he gives Hazel a hula hoop lesson. Nothing about that requires me to reorganize the spice rack. Regardless, the spice rack is now in alphabetical order and has never looked better.
The garlic butter chicken with orzo is on low heat. I went back and forth on what to make. Is it a reminder of what we used to be? I’m probably overthinking it—but he used to ask me for this dish well before we were anything romantic. I scoop the cheddar biscuits into dollops on the cookie sheet. Hazel will probably eat more of those than the actual chicken. My eyes land on the pan of brownies still cooling on the corner of the counter.
Seriously, what are you doing, Pen? His favorites? You should toss it all out and order takeout.
I turn the heat down on the pan and tell myself to get it together. He’s not here for me or for anything between us. He’s here because he’s a good person and doesn’t want Hazel to be embarrassed.
The doorbell rings at six fifteen on the dot, and my breath locks in my throat.
Hazel appears in the kitchen doorway. “He’s here.”
She seems to like Decker, but she’s still hesitant, which is why she comes to me first, to make sure I’m with her. My daughter and I are handling this the exact same way, and I’m not sure how concerned I should be about it.
“Let’s go be good hosts and let him in.”
She slides her hand into mine, and we walk toward the door. My footsteps feel heavy, my chest even heavier, my heart pounding against my ribs. It’s as though the weight of our past is physically pushing down on me with every step.
This is ridiculous. Decker is gentle and kind and will keep the same respectful distance he always does. We can get through this.
“Do you want to open it, or me?”
“You,” she says, tucking herself at my side, almost behind my legs.
Can we please switch places?
No, because you’re the adult, Pen.
