Page 51 of Plunge

“All right,” I concede. “The work is a totally different pace from what I’m used to, but I’m looking forward to this project with Sebastian.” I fill her in on the particulars from the information Sebastian had sent me. “I’m thinking it’ll be about 20 hours a week of research for maybe four months,” I tell her. “And then my company will be ready for me to come back…” I drift off. I can’t tell if I sound foolish or just feel uncertain.

“Well that sounds just perfect,” Rose says. “You can keep helping Archer, right? If he’s not paying you adequately, just yell at him. He can afford to give you a raise.”

We joke a bit about Archer’s easygoing and unconventional habits at the office until Daniel calls us all in to eat. Daniel has set out salad and fresh baked rolls and is just starting to ladle out bowls of the soup when Fletcher bustles in the back door, blowing on his hands to ward off the cold.

“Just in time,” Rose says, gesturing for him to sit next to her. She looks around the kitchen, where things are feeling a little tight with ten of us wedged around the table. “Daniel, we’re nearly out of room,” she says, looking delighted. “Isn’t this just the best problem to have?”

He kisses her on the cheek. “The best,” he says, and his thumb strokes her cheek a few times before Diana tells us the sight of their affection is going to make her yak up her soup. I dig into my food and just sit there, watching the Crawford family banter.

The men all tease Hunter about how much he’s changed when he brings up one of Louie’s diaper stories at the table. Diana’s husband Asa reminds them all that he’s going to be regaling them with diaper tales soon enough. He seems delighted at the prospect.

I start to wonder what would happen if Fletcher and I did continue what we started the other night on his couch. Where would it lead? Would I someday be sitting here as his wife for real? Would his family expect me to have Fletcher’s babies and talk about poop during Sunday dinner?

I start to feel my heart racing and my throat feels tight. I swallow, shifting in my seat, but I feel a hand on my leg. Fletcher is squeezing my knee under the table, smiling. “It’s all good, Thiss,” he says. And I believe him.

Opal changes the subject to the upcoming Sweetheart Dance she’s heard about, and starts to ask the Crawford family about the Oak Creek tradition. Every year, Stephanie, the owner of the dance studio, opens up her doors for an intergenerational Valentine’s dance.

For a small donation to the school’s costume fund, couples can twirl the night away to live music from the high school jazz band. Teenagers usually pretend they’re not going in and dance around the outside of the property to the muffled sounds of the music coming from inside.

It’s mostly adults who sway their way through the Sweetheart Dance, and from the look of things, Opal wants Archer to be in there among them. “You should put in a request for the band to learn a Shania Twain song,” I tease, and everyone bursts out laughing. Archer’s inexplicable love for country music seems to have come from nowhere, but his family is only teasing him when they pick on him about it. They don’t really begrudge him his taste in music.

The couples around the table begin to argue over whether they will or will not be spiking the punch in Stephanie’s studio. Daniel serves the next course, a shepherd’s pie he made with chickpeas, I’m touched that he remembered I’m a vegetarian. Usually, people will just offer up some different side dishes or something and I always manage to find enough to eat. But there’s something really special about being able to enjoy the entire meal right along with everyone else. Nobody even comments about the pie being less than or other.

I remember how the Crawford family always seems to do that—welcome people. Appreciate people for who they are and make them feel at home. I start to feel uncomfortable, between all the talk about the dance and my unresolved feelings about what’s happened recently with Fletcher.

He seems to notice once again and leans back in his chair, away from the cross talk about the dance. He gestures that I should join him. “Hey,” he says, once our heads are close together, behind the ring of dark Crawford heads getting heated about appropriate small-town dance attire for a pregnant woman.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He squeezes my leg again and I’m grateful for his touch, feeling grounded by him. “I don’t want to go to that dance,” he says.

I exhale deeply. “Man, me either,” I say. “Not at all.”

He grins. “Want to come watch another gory movie at my house? I’ll grab some leftovers from my dad for us…”

“Fletcher,” I say, resting my hand on his lap and looking very serious. He raises his eyebrows in question. “There’s not going to be any of this meal left when I’m done here.” He laughs and raises his fork to me.

I clink mine against his and continue eating the delicious food.

---