“What!?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. She reads you. That’s how she figured it out.”
He presses his lips together. The way he circles the spatula around the skillet tells me everything, stirring like he’s trying to drill through the pan.
“Okay…”
“She’s a sweet girl,” I continue. “Very mature for her age.”
“Jay’s done a great job raising her.”
I’m not going to tell him about Jay raising her to lead the pack. This isn’t the right moment to bring up my findings about Effy being next in line—and with that, her child, or one of her future children, too.
“She asked if we could meet at the West House after dinner. She’s struggling, just like you.”
Tom lets out a vague sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
“You know I’ll drag you there myself if I have to, right?”
He nods, but I can tell he’s retreating into his thoughts.
“I’m scared.”
“I know, baby, but this is what you’ve wanted from the very beginning, right? Close your eyes and think back to all those thoughts you had when you first walked into Arcadia.”
His mouth twists into a wicked smile. “Back then? I was thinking,Who’s that divine creature falling straight out of heaven into my lap?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I jab him in the side.
“You fell face-first into my lap.”
His finger lands on my sternum.
“You invited me into your bed, remember?”
“No, that’s not what happened. You invited me into my own bed, remember?”
Before he can respond, Mary interrupts, reaching between us to turn off the stove.
“You two lovebirds, let’s get this dinner served before the potatoes burn. They’re drunk, but not that drunk.”
Tom chuckles, giving the skillet one last stir as Mary shoots me a friendly smile.
Aunties always know the secrets. And now, with two members of this family already aware of us, I can only hope Tom can come out to his family on his own terms.
That’s probably wishful thinking.
When I step into the dining room, I’m relieved to see not everyone’s seated yet. No grand entrance this time where all eyes are on me.
With a quick nudge, Tom points to a free chair next to him. Just before I reach the table, I see him switch two place cards like a skilled thief. No one notices a thing.
The table, meant for fourteen, looks like the aftermath of a storm rather than decked out for a Christmas dinner.
The plates are a random mix of thrift-store treasures, every one of them unique, some a little chipped and none of them matching.
Joan studies her Delft Blue windmill plate, peaks at Effy’s brown bowl. The girls swap them giggling. The rest follow suit, trading dishes like they’re playing Catan.
The cutlery’s no better. Some have spoons instead of forks; a few don’t even have knives.
