thirty-seven
While I might have been uneasy when my mom and Danny were talking earlier, I’m less so now because when I sit beside them, he’s showing her pictures on his phone of the face painting that he’s done, and she is as inquisitive as I’ve been about his talent, so I sit back and watch them with ease. It’s not hard to see that she genuinely likes him, and he’s already comfortable enough with her that he puts his arm over my shoulders.
“This is one of Callie’s favorites.” The detailed octopus covers his client’s face and then runs down his neck with the legs and tentacles eventually winding over the man’s torso. “Over eight hours to do this.”
“My God, you are talented.” My mom swoons. “And patient.”
She asks him about his construction work and then praises him for the quality of everything he did to help make my house shine.
“Thank you, but Callie chose everything in that house. It’s all her transformation. We just did the grunt work.” He rubs my back.
“Except for the lighting,” I point out. “I needed you for that.”
“Barely. I can’t wait to see the pendants installed, but we have to wait for the tin ceiling tile to finish things off.”
“Tin ceiling tiles?” My mom raises her eyebrows. “That’s going to bring that kitchen to another level. Well done, Callie.”
Danny slaps a hand on the table. “Right? Paul and I were pretty skeptical about a few things at first, but she’s never made a wrong choice. She’s just more daring than most of us are.”
“And her food, right?” My mom continues this weird lovefest. “Another talent of hers. I haven’t been this full and happy in Lord knows how long.”
Danny laughs. “Yeah, you and everyone else in Wake.”
“How did you learn to cook like this?” Mom knocks back the rest of her drink and leans in.
“Accidentally finding all of my grandmother’s recipes inspired me to start.” Then, I explain about my furious recipe researching, video watching, and trials and errors. “I don’t really know. But I have so much fun with it.”
“And it shows.” She reaches out and grabs my hand. “You should be very proud.”
After, she makes her way around the table and talks to Jackson, Mary Ann, Matteo, and Slow, and I’m touched. She wants to get to know my friends.
The music picks up, signaling that it’s dance time, and when Paul Simon’s “Cecilia” blasts through the room, my mom hops up, grabs a reluctant Paul, and drags him to the center of the crowd.
“Dancing with PaultoPaul!” she shouts.
“Oh God.” I plant my face in my palm. “Those two drinks seem to have hit her.”
“Maybe my two drinks have hit me as well,” he says with a wry smile.
Before I know it, he’s got his hips moving against me to the rhythm while he grins and sings along about making love in the afternoon.
“Danny! My mom is here!”
“And she’s not paying any attention.”
It’s true. When I catch sight of her, she is bopping around and belting out lyrics, making Paul roll his eyes. Yet he keeps dancing—with more style than I would have expected—while watching her every move.
I cringe. “Ew! Danny, ew! Are they…flirting?”
“Maybe.” He pivots my sight away from them. “Who cares? They’re having fun, and they both deserve it.”
After another five or six songs, everyone in our group has hit the floor, most of us boozy and all of us wild and full of life. We crash back to our table and order another round of drinks. It feels as though the joy that seeps from all of us feels impenetrable.
Until it’s not. Until it’s shattered.
There’s a moment in which my mom looks up, her gaze just over my shoulder. Undeniably, her expression changes, and her mood plummets.
Before I can figure out what’s upsetting her, she sets her hand on my boyfriend’s shoulder. “Danny?” The tone in her voice cuts through the blaring music and makes me freeze.
