Page 34 of Storm in a Teacup
“I do like wine. What are we having for dinner? You think red or white?”
“White, for sure. We’re having salmon. I’ve a great chardonnay you’ll love.” The doorbell rings the moment he stands. “That’ll be your boy. Excuse me—man.I’ll let you get it.”
He heads toward the kitchen as I push myself up from the couch, stressing again that, “He’s just a friend.”
I open the door to find Ben in nice slacks and a forest green sweater under his open jacket. He looks good. He always looks good.
“You used my body wash again,” I say in greeting. The citrus scent hit me as soon as I opened the door.
He smiles, and I can’t help but match it. His genuine smile is contagious. “You smell so good, orange blossom. I want to smell like you.” He looks pointedly at the foyer. “May I come in?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, come on.” I point to where he can hang his jacket, then lead him into the front room where my dad is waiting with two glasses of wine.
He sets them down on the coffee table, saying, “You must be Ben.”
Ben stands up straighter and says, “Yes, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand for my father to shake. My father does not take it, which makes Ben grow even stiffer. I swear, sweat forms on his brow.
Part of me wants to see how long Ben will hold his hand out, but I figure I’ll be nice. Especially because my dad isn’t being a jerk by not shaking Ben’s hand—it’s because he doesn’t see his hand. “Dad, Ben’s trying to shake your hand. Don’t be rude,” I joke.
Other people might be embarrassed by the personal flub (me, I mean me), but Dad, as always, takes it in stride. He sighs loudly and says, “Well, if you insist.” His eyes take an extended moment to locate Ben’s still outstretched hand before he slaps his own into it. “Pleasure’s mine. And you can call me Harold.” Still gripping Ben’s hand, he tugs him forward and says quietly, “If I like you well enough by the end of the night, Harry.” He releases Ben and places his eyes on me. “My Linny seems to really like you. She was just saying she may be in love.”
“Dad!” I scold, my cheeks heating. I explain to Ben, “He knows we’re not dating.”
My dad cackles, his jokes only funny to himself. “Ben, you fancy a white wine?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben says, still a bit rigid. “I mean, Harold.” A flush climbs his neck.
“I’ll go fetch you some.” My dad heads back to the kitchen.
I swipe my glass from the coffee table and sit back on thecouch, pulling Ben with me. “He thinks he’s funny,” I say. “Don’t let him psych you out. He’s being overprotective.”
Ben relaxes into the couch. “Does he have RP as well?”
“Yeah, it’s genetic. Had to come from somewhere.” I sigh. “He didn’t see your hand—it was in a blind spot. Though most of his spots are blind. He doesn’t have a lot of vision left, but it’s less obvious in his own home.”
“I figured.” He angles his head toward me. “You told him we’re not really seeing each other?”
“Are you surprised? Of course, I did. Can’t have him getting his hopes up. I told my mom, too.”
“Where is your mum? She here?”
“She’s in Syracuse, New York.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. You mentioned they were divorced.”
My dad comes out with a third glass of wine for Ben. He hands it to him and says, “It’s been a happy divorce.” He sits back down, running a hand over his bald head. “Food should be ready in ten. So, Ben, Linny tells me you’re a baker?”
“Aye—I own a café with my sister. She handles the business. I handle the sugar.”
My dad continues to grill him with much protest from me while dinner finishes up. As he does, I fear he already has his hopes up. I’ve told him I’m not looking for anyone. I don’t need anyone. If he can do this,life, by himself, so can I. Ican.
Once dinner is ready, my dad plates it, then we join him at the table.
“Oven-roasted salmon?” Ben asks, observing the plate of pink fish as we take our seats.
“Yes, indeed,” my dad confirms. “You’re not allergic?”
“Not at all. It smells amazing. Roasted over lemons and brushed with butter, garlic, thyme”—he sniffs as he studies theplate—“oregano, and honey?”
