Page 3 of For the Love of Scott
Mr. Thompson enters the dining room and Scott halts mid-sit and straightens back up.
Mr. Thompson stops, runs his hands down the length of his suspenders, and cocks his head. “What the hell was that?”
Scott feels a bit abashed again. “Habit, sir.”
Mr. Thompson grins and holds out a hand. They shake before Ben’s dad continues to his seat at the head of the table. “How you doing, son?”
“Fine, sir. Just fine.”
“Ben’s been keeping us up to date on your hard work out at the kennel.”
“Oh, well, just keeping busy, sir.” Another wave of gratification wars with embarrassment. The kennel’d been his sanctuary growing up. It has become his sanctuary again.
“You’re doing a great thing, honey,” says Helen, setting a large pot on the table in front of her husband. Steam curls from the thick casserole, and Scott’s stomach gurgles in anticipation. He can’t remember the last time he enjoyed a true home-cooked meal.
All this happy-family-ness is completely at odds with his own upbringing. Dinner had been a silent affair before his mother had left, and after, it had been nonexistent. Scott had either been at weight lifting practice or working at the kennel. He’d generally fended for himself, although as part of their unspoken agreement, his father had kept the cupboards and refrigerator stocked.
Scott rises again. “Let me help you, Mrs. Thompson.” Helping his hostess is the least he can do for a home-cooked meal.
“Nonsense. You’re a guest,” booms Mr. Thompson. “Ben, get up and help your mother.”
Mrs. Thompson pats Scott’s shoulder while Ben stands.
“Sit, Ma,” says Ben. “I’ll get the rest.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says and slides into the chair to the left of her husband and across from Misty.
Ben returns with a bowl of salad and a basket of delicious-smelling rolls.
Once Ben has taken his seat, Mr. Thompson sets his hands palms up on the corners of the table. Misty sets one hand in her grandfather’s and takes a hold of Scott’s with the other. Mrs. Thompson slips one hand into her husband’s and the other into her son’s, and Ben reaches across the table. In an instant, Scott takes in the long tapered fingers and the eyes the color of the pale blue morning glories that had grown wild in the trailer park where he’d grown up, and slides his hand into Ben’s. Their gaze doesn’t break until their chins practically touch their chests.
Mr. Thompson blesses the meal, and everyone digs in.
* * *
Grandma Hardy’s goulash was delicious and Mrs. Thompson’s peach pie to die for. She’s given Scott a container with a piece for later. Conversation had been lively, and each of the Thompsons had shared something about their day, including Misty. They’d finally convinced him that guests were every bit as welcome to contribute to the conversation. The latest of Sylvester’s canine shenanigans had garnered smiles from the elder Thompsons, giggles from Misty, and a fond smile and star-bright eyes from Ben, although the story surely hadn’t been that amusing.
The temperature has dropped while they’d eaten and visited, and unlike when he’d arrived, small white clouds appear with each exhale. The crisp temperatures nip his cheeks and nose. Burning pine scents the air from the roaring fire Ben and his dad had lit after supper.
Scott inhales deeply. The air smells of home and friendship. He fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the truck. He sets the pie on the dash and turns to Ben, who’s decided Scott needs walking to his vehicle.
Ben hasn’t bothered to put on a coat, of course, and has his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans while he jiggles his arms back and forth trying to generate warmth.
“Hey, uh, a few of us get together to play basketball up at the high school. Our last weekly game until after the holidays is tomorrow night. Around seven,” Ben says. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”
Scott’s breath catches in his throat and then he sighs, his excitement immediately crashing and burning. He hasn’t played hoops in years. Not since before the bomb took his leg. “Basketball. Me?”
“Why not you?” Ben’s eyebrows arch for a moment.
Maybe he really doesn’t know. “I wear a prosthetic.”
“What the hell do I care?” Ben shrugs. “You can play basketball, right?”
Ben’s gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t stray to Scott’s left foot. The fact that it didn’t meant more to Scott than he can possibly say. “I can’t jump.”
A snort explodes from Ben’s mouth, followed by, “That’s bull shit.”
“Excuse me?”
