Page 51 of Love Felt Like This

A weird hook wraps around my stomach and tugs.

“Did you, now?”

“I’m so sorry,” she pleads on a hushed whisper. “I mean, some of them saw the tabloids anyway, and…I was gonna tell them it was all a hoax at first, but…”

I’m not a fan of how often she’s apologizing, but when I open my mouth to counter, I’m interrupted.

“Let’s not discuss this here,” Nana mutters, looking between us.

Nana has good sense. Beverly’s eyes stay locked on the table. Her thumb ticks away at her nail polish, now a bright orange. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I stretch out my leg beneath the table to nudge hers. Her head jerks up, and I raise my eyebrows. That’s all it takes to make her smile.

Yeah, I really like that smile.

“We’re having a family dinner tomorrow,” Nana says. “You and Ava should come.”

Beverly’s eyes widen. “Oh, no…Griffin’s got work to do, and I’m sure Ava has a bedtime—”

“Nonsense,” Nana says with a raised chin. “He’s our guest in town. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Beverly exhales, staring at me with her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

“You’re allowed to ignore her,” she says, as if only to me. Except, from the corner of my eye, other faces in the diner watch us. Eyes wander.

I clear my throat. “You’re my girlfriend’s family,” I announce. “Of course I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic,” Nana says, beaming.

“Fantastic,” Beverly whispers, but there isn’t a smile in sight.

Chapter Nine

Cake, Crocs, and a Cat

Beverly

“Please be normal,” I beg.

“We are normal,” Mom says, holding up a knife and making horror-movie screeching sounds.

“Should I spend an hour showing him my coin collection?” Dad asks. “Or my baseball cards?”

“Dad.” I set the table, cautiously keeping an eye on him because Dad absolutely would sneak off to gather his binder of cards.

Griffin is arriving at our house with Ava in ten minutes. I shouldn’t be nervous. My family is one of the most welcoming crews out there. But…they’re also…well, I’m sure every family is weird, but my family is my family, and—what the—Uncle Greg walks past me, smacking his Crocs clogs across the hardwood floor and holding a three-tiered strawberry cake.

“When did you make that?”

Greg shrugs. “This afternoon.”

He and his Crocs move on toward the kitchen.

It’s not weird, but it’s also…I love my Uncle Greg, but who makes a three-tiered cake on a Sunday afternoon?

I glance at the clock hanging over the sink, next to our fridge scattered with magnets and—Is that a Polaroid of me as a baby in the bathtub? I cover it with an alligator magnet from an old family vacation to St. Augustine.

“Will you relax?” Greg asks, setting the cake on the counter. He holds out a hand and slides it palm down across the air. “Chill.” It’s easy for him to say. My uncle has relaxed every day of his life. The only time he’s been questionably stressed was the weeks leading up to and following his divorce.

“I am chill,” I argue, pulling my shoulders up to my ears in a totally chill way.