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I kneel down in front of Tommy and start packing the crayons.
He whispers, “Can I show Daddy my drawings?” and I nod and gather all fifty pieces of paper, the majority of which have a single jagged line through the middle.
Voices from downstairs filter up to my room and then footsteps thud up the stairs. I know it’s Josh because the steps are loud and heavy. My grandmother creeps around like I’m an injured animal and I’ll attack if spooked.
A panic sets in at the sound of his steps and then escalates when he knocks on the door. I look at Tommy—but all he’s doing is smiling—a smile identical to his father’s. Tommy answers because I’m too busy trying to look preoccupied with putting the crayons back in their box.
“Hey, bud,” Josh says to Tommy. “Did you have a good day with Becca?” He uses a voice suitable for talking to kids.
My teachers were the only ones who used that voice with me.
“We drawded,” Tommy whispers.
“Why are we whispering?” Josh whispers back.
“It’s a secwet,” Tommy tells him, and I turn my back to hide my smile again.
“Okay,” Josh says, his voice still low. Then louder, he asks, “I brought some burgers and fries home. You want to ask Becca if she’d like to join us?”
“Come on, best fwend!” Tommy shouts.
I stand up and set the crayons on my bed and pick up the drawings. Without looking at either of them, I hand Josh the papers and pass him on the way down to the kitchen. I hear Josh ask Tommy if he drew them, and then the fake surprise in his voice when he says, “Wow! These are amazing!” And as hard as I try not to be envious of Tommy in that moment, I am.
I wait in the kitchen for them to join my grandmother and I—who’s already going through the bags of food at the counter.
Josh and Tommy enter the room holding hands and Josh shouts, “No!” making me jump in my spot. “You know the rules, ma’am. Sit down at the table. You too, Becca,” he says, but he’s not angry, he’s smiling.
He smiles a lot.
And again I find myself envious of Tommy for having a happy parent—or at least one who’s decent enough to fake it around him.
Grams takes a seat at the table and motions for me to join her. I sit down next to her while Josh and Tommy busy themselves in the kitchen. Josh hands Tommy a bag and Tommy comes to the table, kneels on a chair and goes through it. The bag’s filled with paper plates, napkins and plastic knives and forks. Tommy gets to work, walking around and setting the table for us; a plate each with a knife placed on one side and a fork on the other with a napkin beneath it. He does this silently, his lips pursed and his eyes focused. Once he’s done, he walks back to the kitchen counter and asks his dad where the cups are.
“Take this,” my grandmother whispers from next to me. I look down at her hand between our plates holding a single dollar bill.
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Tommy returns a moment later with plastic cups and places them next to his and Josh’s plate, then comes around to our side and does the same with ours. “Now?” he asks loudly, speaking to his dad.
Josh looks up from emptying the bags and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt at the same time. His forearms are tanned and muscular. And kind of hot. I’ve never noticed forearms before. Ever. I wonder what his hands are like.
“Looks good, bud,” Josh says, and I blink once and tear my gaze away from his arms. “Great job!”
“Excellent work, young man,” My grandmother states, handing him a dollar.
“Fank you, ma’am.” He walks over to me and grins from ear to ear. “Did I do good, Becs?”
“No one’s ever set the table for me before,” I tell him, trying on the kid-voice used earlier. Josh and my grandmother laugh, and for a second I don’t know why. Probably because they think I’m kidding.
I’m not.
I hand Tommy the dollar just as Josh places a tray in the middle of the table; burgers (cut in quarters), fries, and two other things coated in batter.
“Dig in!” Josh shouts, rolling up his sleeves even higher.
When did arms become attractive?
I wait while everyone loads their plate (Josh loads Tommy’s) and when they’re done I grab one of everything. I keep my eyes on Tommy, using him as a guide on what the proper protocol is.
He picks up a flat, round, batter-covered thing and throws it in his mouth. Then he chews and chews until he swallows.
I look down at my plate and pick up the same looking thing. Then, without wanting to look out of place, I shove it in my mouth and chew.
I choke.
The taste overpowers all my senses, even my nose. “What is this?” I mumble, bringing the napkin to my mouth.
Josh and Tommy laugh as I spit it out onto the napkin then use it to wipe the taste off my tongue. Tommy’s still laughing, but Josh has contained his reaction to a smirk—a smirk almost as hot as his arms. “You’re not a fan of fried pickles?”
I shake my head.
“Your eyes are watering! They’re not that bad,” he says, shoving one in his mouth to prove his point.
My nose scrunches in disgust.
Then fingers brush the side of my face, moving my hair, and I gasp and flinch away from my grandmother’s touch. My heart pounds while I look down—watching my chest rise and fall. I bite down on my thumb, my eyes drifting shut when the pain consumes me. I try to calm my breathing but I can’t.
