Page 52 of Meant to be Mine

“He’s a good kid,” Dad said.

The doorbell rang and all three of us grinned. I opened the door and did my best not to gasp. He was too hot. Dark jeans, a white linen shirt, and sunglasses pushed up on his head.

“Hello, Blake family,” he said.

“Drew.” Mom hugged him with her good arm.

“Mrs. Blake.” He pulled back and looked at her. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Blake. Good to see you, sir.”

“Drew.” Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Looking forward to this.”

Drew turned to me last. There was a beat, just the smallest one, before he smiled. “Ready?”

“Ready,” I said.

We got on the road with Mom in the front passenger seat of his Escalade because Drew had insisted. Dad and I settled into the back. I had a direct sightline to the rearview mirror, which meant I had to be careful about how often I let my eyes drift forward.

“Can you tell me where we’re going now?” Mom asked. “Kensey said it was a surprise.”

Drew laughed. “So Kensey and I were talking about doing something where you wouldn’t have to do too much walking or anything too physical while the arm is still healing.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Mom said.

“We’re starting with lunch,” he said. “There’s a restaurant out at the Malibu Pier. Right at the entrance. It’s farm-to-table, really good food, and the view of the water is incredible. We can sit outside if you want, right over the ocean.”

“Farm-to-table,” she said. “Sounds fancy.”

“You’re going to love it,” Drew said.

“What’s after lunch?” she asked.

“That’s the part that stays a surprise a little longer,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, Drew,” Mom said after we were seated at our table. “This is wonderful.”

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

Dad caught my eye over the top of the menu and gave me a small nod of approval. The food was exactly what he’d promised. Beautiful plates, fresh everything, the kind of meal that made you feel like you were doing something good for yourself even when you ordered the thing with the butter sauce. Mom got the halibut. Dad got the short rib. Drew and I both ordered the same pasta dish without consulting each other, which we only noticed when we ordered.

We ate and talked. Drew asked my father about the woodworking project he’d been doing in the garage. Dad lit up the way he always did when someone actually wanted to know.

“Drew,” Mom said pleasantly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I nudged her under the table, my eyes wide. She didn’t flinch.

“Mom,” I said.

“What? It’s a normal question.” She looked at him with zero shame. “You’re a wonderful young man. I always thought so. I’m just so surprised no one has pinned you down yet.”

Drew smiled, and to his credit, he didn’t look remotely uncomfortable. He picked up his water glass. “No, ma’am. I’ m not seeing anyone at the moment.”

“Such a shame,” she said, shaking her head slightly. The way she said it, you’d think he’d just told her he had a terminal diagnosis. “A handsome, successful man like you. You have so much heart, Drew. You always have.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Blake.”