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“C’mon, dude.” Stella hands him a stack of napkins while she grabs the utensils and Samson grabs the plates. “I’ll show you.”
As soon as they’re clear of the room, Frankie starts apologizing. “I’m so, so sorry. He’s just—”
“Sweet as dang pie,” my mom says, cutting her off.
Frankie nods hesitantly, but agrees. “He is sweet.” Then she turns to me. “Orion, I promise you don’t need to wake him up, tuck him in, any of that. I’m sorry he put you in an uncomfortable position. I’ll talk to him about it later tonight, okay?”
I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—and yet when I open my mouth, the exact words I didn’t want to say are the ones that come out. “It’s not a big deal. And if it means that much to him, I’m happy to do it.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she manages to keep them at bay. “I promise—” Her voice cracks, and I swear I feel it deep inside of me. “You don’t have to.”
“What if I said I wanted to?” I ask, wondering who in the hell is in charge of the words coming out of my mouth. Because none of this shit is what my brain is relaying.
My mom, to her credit, is doing a wonderful job of pretending to not pay us any attention, but the woman is like a sponge, and I know for damn sure she’s soaking up every single word.
“Do you?” Frankie whispers, looking more unsure than I’ve ever seen her look.
No doubt, I’m about to spew some other sappy bullshit I don’t want to say, but my dad walks in, thankfully putting an end to my verbal vomit.
“Smells good, Lizzie dear.”
Mom smiles and meets him in the doorway. “Made your favorite.”
“Lasagna.” He makes a big show of patting his stomach before leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. As he pulls away, he notices Frankie standing awkwardly next to me. “And who do we have here?”
“Frankie Townsend, sir.” She steps around me and holds out her hand.
I watch, amused, waiting for Dad to shake her hand, but it seems like we’re all out of sorts tonight, because instead he pulls her in for a hug. “Nice to meet you.”
She pats his back twice before slinking out of his hold.
“Son.” The smirk on his face as he pauses tells me all I need to know. I’m not going to like whatever it is he’s about to say. “You couldn’t have picked a better night to bring your…friend.” He turns back to Frankie. “My Lizzie’s lasagna is the best thing in the entire world. You’re in for a treat.”
“Oh, um. Stella invited me, actually.”
Dad looks between the two of us, and then over to my mom, the two of them having some kind of silent conversation, until finally, he nods.
“Just wait until you meet Maverick,” Mom says, and then turns to me. “Orion, can you grab the pan from the oven and bring it to the table with you?”
“Sure thing, Mom.”
She smiles and then links her arm with Frankie’s. “Come on, let’s get you seated.”
“Oh, and, Michael, grab the—”
“Salad.” He holds up the wooden bowl. “I know, dear.”
He waits a few seconds and then spins to face me. “So…”
“So what?”
“Frankie, huh?”
“She’s Stella’s friend.” I give him my back as I grab the baking dish from the oven.
He gives a noncommittal hum. “Whatever you say, son.”
“She’s—” But when I turn around, he’s already gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRANKIE
I’m not sure what I was expecting tonight to be like, but this isn’t it.
Growing up, the only times we ever sat down and ate a meal together were for major holidays. And even then, I was relegated to the kids’ table.
So, to be here, all crowded around the dinner table together, is a little surreal. But it’s nice, too. It’s the kind of memories I want for Maverick.
It’s a reminder of what I’m working toward.
“What are you majoring in?” Lizzie asks.
“Business.”
“Smart.” Mr. Cartwright nods. “Got any plans to put it to use?”
“Um.” I don’t want to tell them my only goal is to provide for my child, and that I’ll take any job that will hire me to do so.
Something tells me this is the kind of family that thrives on a can-do attitude, and my only real ambition is giving my son a better life than my parents gave me—by any means necessary.
Luckily, Orion waltzes in with a giant dish of lasagna before I can formulate a reply.
We all take turns passing around the salad bowl and bread basket before loading up our plates with heaping slices of the ooey-gooey cheesy lasagna.
The smell alone is nearly enough to make me moan in delight, but when that first bite hits my tongue, well… This certainly isn’t Stouffer’s.
Even Maverick is gobbling it up. And even better, we’re all so preoccupied with eating that the spotlight is blessedly off me.
