Page 85 of Take Me Home

“Just in case, I know what will help.”

The words came out before she even thought them. “Ice cream?”

“You still like mint chip?”

Part of her wanted to hug him. But then, remembering her favorite ice cream was a pretty low bar, wasn’t it?

He offered her whipped cream and sprinkles, and she declined because she wasn’t eight years old, but she relented to chocolate syrup because a third no felt like it wouldmeansomething. Was he as hyperaware as she was of all these tiny, unspoken negotiations? Was he making them, too, or was it completely one-sided?

She sat in the dining chair that had been unofficially assigned to her. He took the one beside her, Lucy’s usual place. Then they ate in silence. Justdidn’t speak. And she didn’t actually want ice cream, not all by itself.

Ash had asked why she’d come back here. It was true enough what she’d told him, that it hadn’t felt like a choice. She’dresistedcoming, but it was empty resistance. Ash didn’t realize all those other usual times people their age visited home, she hadn’t been asked to come, hadn’t had to say yes or no. So, whenher father sent aformal invitationto the occasion of his wedding, it felt like a big deal. If she said no to that one, another invitation may never come.

But now, eating ice cream too quickly to escape this silence, she knew some small part of herhadhoped for something. She couldn’t quite name what.

Right now, she wanted him to speak, to fall into easy conversation, into teasing like Ash’s family did. She wanted this to be something they’d done a million times—late-night ice cream talks. She wanted him to ask questions—not to get to know her, but questions that came from knowing her, like how her final paper had turned out and whether she’d submitted her request to switch to Dr. Tate’s lab. She still hadn’t.

“Val wanted me to ask you about the Christmas Eve menu,” he said. “Which I suppose is also the wedding dinner.”

Hazel wished she’d taken her chances on crawling away earlier. “Whatever she has planned is fine.”

“Tomorrow night will be catered. Italian,” he went on, like this might help her form an opinion. She’d almost forgotten about his station holiday party.

“Val and her kids have always done enchiladas on Christmas Eve. I guess some families have traditional meals like that.” He paused. “I know one year your mom spent hours cooking a ham. I remember because I got called last-minute to the station before it was done.”

“I remember.” She didn’t add that her mother had protested cooking any big holiday dinners after that year.

Sylvia’s family barbequed brisket and ribs on Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve, it was chicken-fried steak and root beer floats, which had some elaborate origin story of a blind date and a car breaking down before the intended destination. Technically, she’d eaten that meal more than any other on Christmas Eve.

“Enchiladas sound great,” she said.

The last few years, when her father called on Christmas, that obligatory quick call not too early and not too late in the day, she excused herself to Sylvia’s childhood bedroom to answer. She would stare at herself in the closet door mirror while they talked, calculating back to whenever he’d last come through town and noting the small changes in her appearance as he might have. He always ended the call too quickly, at the first lingering pause. “Well, I’d better not keep you,” he’d say, like she was the one eager to hang up. She’d wait a few more minutes before rejoining Sylvia’s family so it wouldn’t seem too soon.

“I made Ash our famous pear and bacon grilled cheese today,” she heard herself say, then tensed because—what if he didn’t remember? Or, what if, like their real Christmas trees, he’d only let her think he liked it at the time?

“Those were dire times,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m sorry. You know, I’ve learned a few basic domestic skills since then.”

She did know. He’d helped with most of the meals since she’d arrived. Logically, she knew her parents hadn’t divorced because of all the dinners he’d missed, but it had certainly been one of her mother’s most repeated complaints. Ironic that the divorce had forced him into dealing with the tasks her mother had resented, and now, he was a more present and capable partner for Val. She would never mention this to her mother.

“Everyone likes the pear. My roommate—well, myoldroommate—always used to ask for it when she was…” Hazel blushed. “Um, drunk.”

“This is Sylvia?”

Hazel smiled, pleased he’d remembered. They had lived together for all of college, but still.

“You said she’s in Houston now?”

Had Hazel told him that? Apparently so. “Yeah, she’s opening a new location of her family’s restaurant.”

“I’ll have to check it out next time I’m there. Maybe we could make a weekend of it.”

“Sure,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if he meant he and Hazel or he and Val.

Her father pushed his ice cream away and patted his stomach. “I’d better stop before I regret this.”

Hazel took their bowls to the sink. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to ask, “Do you ever do this with Lucy?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.” He stood up, coming over to the counter.

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