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Lori: We're in. Does 7 work for you? Want to come by our house, or should we come to yours?
Could I have been more cautious? Maybe. Was there a chance this would lead to heartbreak? Definitely. But I wanted this more than I'd wanted anything in my life.
Graham: 7 is perfect. I'll come to yours. Text me the address.
Chapter Seventeen
Graham
Milo and I bonded over soccer. He'd started firing questions the second Lori opened the door. He showed no sign of stopping while they gave me a tour of the two-bedroom house. The kitchen was separated from the dining area by a sliding wall made out of stained glass.
"And I thought I'd heard every soccer-related question," Lori murmured as we took the dinner ingredients from out of the shopping bags. I only needed Lori to provide me with salt, pepper, and oil.
She smacked her forehead. "I ran out of olive oil the other day. There's a convenience store one block away."
"Want me to go?"
"Mooom, please don't make Graham go. I have to talk with him about the foul in the last game." Milo was perched on a stool, clasping the edges with both hands.
"I'll go. It's close," Lori said.
"I'll get started here."
After she left, Milo hopped off his chair, leaning against the counter while I was slicing potatoes. His soccer knowledge was impressive.
"Can I have orange juice?" he asked when he paused for a breather.
"Sure," I said automatically... but then I wondered if I should have given it more thought, because Milo kept glancing over his shoulder at the entrance door while he took the orange juice out of the fridge, as if he was sneaking around.
He put the carton back right after he poured himself a glass, which he asked me to rinse after he drank it. I became even more suspicious. Somehow, I didn't think seven-year-olds tidied up after themselves unless they wanted to cover their tracks.
"Do you go to the stadium to watch every game?" he asked.
"Not all of them. We could go together sometime. If it's okay with your mom."
"Can-I-have-popcorn-while-we-watch? And-ice-cream?" he asked, all in one breath it seemed. Were those trick questions?
I didn't know what the protocol was, but common sense dictated I should ask Lori first before committing to anything. Said common sense flew out the window when Milo put his hands together as if in a prayer. How much harm could some popcorn and ice cream do?
"Pleaaase."
Then he widened his eyes. How could I not say yes to that? I had to ask Lori.
"Sure."
By the time she returned, I'd already sliced all the potatoes and the oven was the right temperature.
"You've had orange juice," she exclaimed the second she saw Milo. Turning to me, she explained, "Ground rule: no sugary drinks allowed in the evening."
"Duly noted," I said.
Milo's grin was contagious. That little marauder had me in the palm of his hand. He'd charmed me faster than even his mother had.
"Milo, go wash your hands and then set the table," Lori instructed. Milo left the room without arguing. I couldn't help smiling.
The corners of Lori's mouth twitched. "He played you."
"No, he didn't." I tried to hold my ground, but hey, she'd busted me, so why not man up and admit I'd been played by a seven-year-old? "How could you tell? He put the carton back in the fridge and I washed the glass."
