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“We’re late, Dad,” Cooper states from the passenger seat. He hasn’t stopped tapping his fingers on the window since we left our house.
It’s only a fifteen-minute drive from our house to Ava’s, but I was stuck in the office longer than usual today despite clocking in way too early, leaving us running around trying to get ready for our weekly family dinner at my best friend’s house.
We’ve been having these dinners since Cooper was a toddler. They started as Ava and her husband, Oakley, offering to help me once a week by cooking and feeding us while watching Coop, but over the years has turned into a giant get-together with all of our friends and their kids. We now alternate who hosts each week, and I won’t lie and pretend I’m not relieved that it’s at Oakley and Ava’s tonight.
Oakley has a man cave worthy of a magazine article, and Ava is a far better cook than I am. Not to mention their place isn’t nearly as cramped as mine after everyone arrives.
“We never eat on time, anyway,” I reply and point to the metal gate up the road. “Look, the gate is right there. Take a breath, buddy.”
He makes a point of looking at the time displayed on the fancy touch screen at the centre of the dash. “It’s 6:13. We should have been here thirteen minutes ago.”
As we close in on the massive acreage and the locked gate that guards it, I toss my phone to my co-pilot. “Yeah, yeah. Call Oakley and tell him to open the gate.”
He does, and by the time we get there, it’s already open. I turn off the service road and onto the paved driveway leading to the house.
The six-car garage at the end of the driveway is blocked by Oakley’s lifted F-350, a Jeep Wrangler that belongs to Ava, and a blacked-out Escalade belonging to Oakley’s brother-in-law, Tyler.
I’ve barely shifted the car into park before Cooper jumps out and runs toward the circle of kids watching us from the yard. Oakley and Ava’s oldest son, Maddox, is only two years younger than Coop, so I’m not surprised when he’s my son’s first stop.
I watch the two greet each other with clapped hands and laugh at the maturity of it. Ava is waiting for me on the huge wraparound porch by the time I get out of the car and start up the cobblestone sidewalk. The smell of the fresh flowers hanging in planters around the porch should be overwhelming, but I’ve grown to love it over the years. I never would have thought Ava—the girl who baked countless pots of flowers in the sun in university—would grow to have a green thumb, but here we are.
“You’re late,” she scolds me before smiling warmly. Her long, coffee-brown-coloured hair is swept out of her face and tied in a loose bun at the back of her head, and she’s wearing a Minnie Mouse apron that rests over a pair of jean cut-off shorts and a muscle tank. She’s the epitome of casual, like always.
“And you’re looking beautiful this evening.”
“Always with the flattery.”
In an instant, I’m up the stairs and wrapping my arms around her in a tight hug. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” I say.
She returns the hug just as tight. “You’re right.”
A symphony of voices coming from inside the house has me pulling back and slinging my arm over Ava’s shoulders as we head inside. Ava bumps her hip against mine.
“I hope you’re hungry. I may or may not have gone a little overboard at the store today.”
I snort. “What does a little overboard mean?”
“It means you’ll be taking food home with you,” Oakley says as he heads toward us. His grin pulls at the wrinkles by his eyes.
Ava gives my side a squeeze before slipping from beneath my arm and moving to place a kiss on Oakley’s jaw. Her husband scowls like the quick kiss offended him and wraps a hand around the back of her neck, bringing her lips to his. I laugh, shaking my head, and a second later, Ava swats at his chest and pushes back.
“You just saw me five minutes ago.”
Oakley shrugs. “Okay. And?”
“And this argument is pointless. I’m going to check on dinner,” she says, shooting the two of us an exasperated look. “At least get out of the entryway and come sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply and move further into the house as she disappears to the kitchen.
The front entry opens into the sitting room, decorated with a grey couch opposite a white-painted brick fireplace with two family photos placed on either side. One photo is from last summer, at their vacation home on the island. The photographer posed their three kids in front, with Oakley and Ava behind them. Their two-year-old daughter, Adalyn, was only a year old then and looks like she’s poised and ready to take off.
The second photo is of everyone this past Christmas. I’m on the far left, followed by Ava, Oakley, his sister Gracie, Tyler, Tyler’s brother Braden, and his wife, Sierra. The kids—all six of them—are placed in front of us. To a random person, we look like a crazy bunch, and we are to an extent, but we’re just one massive family. We may not share DNA, but this is the best family I could have asked for.
I tear my eyes from the photos and flop down on the couch. Oakley joins me.
“How are you doing?” I ask once he gets comfortable.
Oakley rolls his neck. “Almost as good as new.”
