Page 4 of No More Love Songs

She giggles the way she always does when she’s mildly amused by me and skips the last three steps, leaping gracefully to the bottom. Seven years of dance classes show themselves regularly around here.

“Did you already put cheese on mine?” she asks when she spots both our plates on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

“Am I new here?” I shake my head answering my own question. “Of course, I put cheese on yours.”

She bobs her head happily, a sign she’s satisfied with her plate now that she’s close enough to see what’s on it.

“Wanna sit outside?” I point toward the glass doors leading out to the back porch.

She shrugs. “Sure.”

“Lead the way. I’ll bring the drinks.”

She nods and starts for the door. As soon as she heads that way, all three of our dogs get to their feet, giving up their nap spots in the kitchen to head outside with us.

I bring up the rear with my own plate and two bottles of old-school cream soda. I’m not big on sodas and sweets in this house, but it’s a Friday night tradition around here.

Only takes a few seconds before we’re both seated on the swinging bench, one of our favorite spots, even for meals. I know it’s not the most obvious choice, but it’s been the two of us for so long, we’ve got our own rhythm and neither of us minds that it doesn’t beat to the same drum the rest of the world likes to play.

“Think you can take me over to Emma’s tomorrow?” she asks after a good two or three bites in silence.

“Don’t see why that’d be a problem.” I swirl my fork in my noodles. I thought I included too much zucchini trying to use up what was left before it spoiled, but it worked out alright after all. “What time are you thinking?”

“Maybe around three? She’s gotta ask her parents, but if they say yes, can I sleep over?”

“Fine by me.” I set down my fork to pick up my bottle and have a drink. “But I’ll have to pick you up late on Sunday. I’ve got a gig in the morning.”

“I remember.” She smiles but it’s only half directed at me. Mostly, she’s amused by the face Leela, her fuzzy pit mix, is making trying to con her out of some of her dinner. “Can I pick the game tonight?”

Another Friday night tradition. Game night. I know my time on this one is running short, but for now, Aria seems happy to continue to show up for them. “You picked the game last week,” I remind her.

“I know. But I won.”

“So?”

“So, winner gets to choose.”

I snort. “That’s never been a thing.”

She tilts her head to the left, grinning slyly. “Can we make it a thing?”

“Depends.” I toss a carrot slice at Halle, our three-legged sheepdog and the only one out of the pack who enjoys vegetables. “What game did you have in mind?”

“Chutes and ladders.”

“Then no. Absolutely not.” I hate that game. Always have.

“I’m kidding. I’m not four.” She rolls her eyes. Apparently, I shouldn’t have fallen for that. “Backgammon?”

I nod. “That works.”

“With ice cream.”

“Who said we have ice cream?”

She smirks. And it’s all the answer I need to know she checked the freezer already.

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