Chapter 13
Winnie
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house is a sacred event but there are rules.
You show up on time. You bring Tupperware because Mom cooks like she’s feeding a minor league baseball team, but she doesn’t want to lose her good storage containers to her heathen kids.
And if you bring your pet rabbit on a leash, you better believe he’s getting his own designated litter box in the laundry room.
Which is why I’m currently kneeling in my parents’ mudroom, setting up Buttermilk’s bathroom corner while he sniffs at everything like a TSA agent.
“Don’t chew on that,” I warn as he noses a pair of my dad’s Crocs. “Those are… well, actually, you can have those. They’re hideous.”
The rabbit cocks a furry but distrustful eyebrow at me, thumps twice in annoyance and proceeds to hop into the kitchen. I follow him and am hit by the holy trifecta of Sunday dinner smells—garlic, butter and something distinctly roast-y.
My mother, Carol Shaw—library reference assistant extraordinaire, cardigan queen and podcast junkie—glances down at Buttermilk who’s snuffling around her ankles.
She’s wearing her “Kiss the Cook” apron I got her years ago for her birthday, sipping red wine and chopping parsley like she’s on Top Chef.
“Oh good, you brought my furry grandson,” she says with genuine delight as she glances down. “Your father’s been worried he wouldn’t remember him.”
“He sees him every week.”
“Well, rabbits have small brains,” she says, as if this is scientific fact. “Like my cousin Belinda.”
“Buttermilk is smarter than most men I’ve dated,” I mutter, rising and dusting off my jeans. “Where’s everyone else?”
Mom tosses her head toward the hall that leads to the living room.
“Oh, and just so you know,” she says casually, “don’t bring up Caleb’s new gym obsession.
He thinks no one knows he hired a personal trainer named Svetlana, but your niece overheard him practicing how to say ‘protein macros’ in the mirror. ”
I gasp, hand to chest like a scandalized Southern debutante. “Caleb’s got a gym crush? Shocking. I had no idea.”
I absolutely had every idea. Sadie spilled the beans last week while drawing Svetlana in crayon with massive muscles and very pointy eyelashes.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, knowing the answer already.
“Go away,” she says, kindly but not joking.
My mom rules the kitchen with an iron fist and doesn’t like people getting in her way.
I kiss her cheek. “I’m out of here.”
In the living room, my dad is cocked back in his recliner watching a hockey game. Dennis Shaw is a retired chemistry teacher and now volunteers at the Phipps Conservatory. He’s famous for quoting old movies and has serious but somewhat fragile lawn pride.
Buttermilk hopping in catches his attention and he immediately leans over the chair, holding out his hand. “There’s my favorite grandrabbit. Come here, Buttermilk. Who’s your favorite grandpa?”
My father isn’t given the time of day as Buttermilk instead hops over to my niece, who happens to be my favorite person in the world.
Sadie sits cross-legged on the floor and Buttermilk beelines to her. I swear to God, the rabbit’s facial expression changes to one of pure adoration and he snuggles into her side.
I squash the twinge of jealousy and tousle her hair as I walk by to give my dad a kiss on the cheek. “Who’s playing?” I ask.
“The Arizona Vengeance and the Vancouver Flash,” Eli says from the couch where he has a bottle of craft beer perched on his thigh.
Eli is the oldest Shaw sibling at thirty-eight, which makes him eleven years older than me.
He’s a firefighter and still single… well past the age of mother hounding him constantly for grandkids.
I smack his leg as I walk by and plop down on the cushion right between him and my other brother, Caleb, who is the middle child and eight years older than me.
Caleb is Sadie’s father and freshly divorced from a very sweet woman who we all still love. In fact, I think Caleb still loves Sadie’s mom, but they grew apart romantically and knew it was time to call it quits. They’re still good friends and co-parent Sadie.
Caleb is the district manager for a grocery chain and has the driest humor of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s also radically overprotective of me, to the point he’s a little scary.
“How’s the dating circus?” he asks, nudging me in the ribs. His tone is curious with a subtle whiff of threat.
“Crazy,” I reply truthfully, grabbing the beer out of Eli’s hand who gives it up without a fight. I take a sip and hand it back. “But educational.”
“She posted another TikTok,” Sadie announces without looking up.
My mouth drops open as I turn to my brother. “You don’t let her watch TikTok, do you? That shit will warp her brain, and besides that… there’s inappropriate stuff on there.”
Caleb hushes me. “Watch your language.”
“Yeah… shit is a bad word,” Sadie says proudly.
My dad pats her on the head. “Yes, it is. Only use it if things are really bad.”
I snort and Caleb glares at our father before turning back to me. “No, I don’t let her watch TikTok except your videos, which she does with me. She’s getting the most honest relationship advice she’ll ever hear from you.”
“Aww,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. “That’s so sweet.”
Caleb shrugs hard to dislodge me. “Don’t let it go to your deranged head.”
Mom peeks around the corner. “Dinner is served.”
We all get up, Eli, Caleb and I shoving each other to get in there first because the first one in always scores the coveted corner slice of garlic bread—the one soaked in butter and slightly burnt on the edge. We always fight over it like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic.
Caleb elbows Eli in the ribs, Eli steps on my foot, and I end up wedged between both of them yelling, “If I don’t get that bread, I’m telling everyone about Svetlana!”
Eli barks out a laugh.
Caleb stares at me with wide eyes. “Why would you say that? What do you know?”
I grin as I seize on his discombobulation and bolt past both my brothers. Victory, and garlic, are mine.
True to form, my mother has prepared enough food to stock a fallout shelter. There’s roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon and her infamous garlic bread, which she swears is low carb because she “uses intention instead of flour.”
Plates are full, talk is boisterous, and it takes exactly five minutes for the conversation to shift to him.
Lucky.
“So,” Caleb begins casually, slicing into his chicken like it insulted him, “how’s Mr. Professional Hockey?”
“His name is Lucky,” I say, already bracing.
“That’s not a name. That’s a Vegas promotion.”
“He seems nice,” Mom offers, ever the mediator.
“He’s famous,” Dad says, pointing his fork at me like he’s connecting dots. “Do you know how famous people get into trouble? They start dating civilians. Like astronauts dating raccoons.”
“That is not the metaphor,” Mom huffs.
“He’s not a raccoon,” I say. “He’s… sweet. And funny. And maybe kind of a little extraordinary.”
Eli raises one eyebrow. “You said you were looking for normal.”
“I was,” I admit. “But maybe I underestimated what I want. Or need.”
There’s a long pause as the family processes.
Caleb is the first to break it. “Well, at least he’s not a barista-poet who thinks astrology is a career path.”
“Or that guy who told you women shouldn’t wear pantsuits,” Mom adds with an eye roll.
“Or the one who faked a British accent for three weeks,” Eli mutters into his mashed potatoes and everyone chuckles at my expense.
I hold up a hand. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. And for sure, Lucky isn’t like those guys. He’s grounded. Smart. Doesn’t take himself too seriously. But he’s a freaking professional hockey player. That’s so far away from normal. Don’t you think that’s just asking for trouble?”
“He let a rabbit share his spotlight,” Dad says, surprisingly serious. “That’s something.”
“And he called you electric on one of his stitches,” my mom offers.
Caleb smirks. “Well, I hope he knows that voltage runs in the family. Because if he hurts you, I’ve got twenty places to hide a body where it’ll never be found.”
“I’ve got fire and legally sanctioned axes,” Eli adds, ever the firefighter.
“Boys,” Mom warns, but I beam anyway.
Because this is them. They’re loud and weird and so unreasonably invested in my dating life, but it comes from love. Fierce, unconditional and overwhelming love.
Which is something I know Lucky appreciates. He’s very close to his mother, sister and nieces, so he understands my need to have my adult life intertwined with my parents and siblings.
After dinner, while Dad does dishes and Mom queues up a podcast called Murder at the Farmer’s Market, I sit out on the porch with Sadie curled into my side. Today was warm, but it’s starting to cool off.
Buttermilk’s on his long leash, wreaking havoc on the front doormat.
Caleb steps out and hands me my second beer of the evening.
“You really like this guy?”
I nod. “Yeah. I think I do.”
“Then maybe don’t overthink it. The good ones don’t come around every week.”
He ruffles my hair like I’m still ten. I swat him away but keep smiling.
“But I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” he adds.
“Yeah, yeah,” I drawl. “You know where to hide a body.”
Caleb tweaks his daughter’s nose. “You ready to go, kiddo? You’ve got school tomorrow and I want you to practice your math facts.”
Sadie pouts and burrows in closer to me. “I don’t want to. I’m going to stay with Aunt Winnie and Buttermilk.”
I give her a sympathetic squeeze. “Sorry, bug. The world needs your brilliance.”
Caleb grins. “Come on, now. Remember what Grandpa always says—”
Sadie groans as we recite it together: “‘Education is the passport to the future.’”
She huffs and scurries off the porch swing. “Fine. But I’m not doing multiplication unless there’s a cookie involved.”
“I think we can manage that,” Caleb says, taking her hand. He bends down, kisses my cheek. “See you next week.”
After Caleb goes back inside, I sit on the porch for a while longer, watching the late-afternoon sun stretch over the winter-browned grass. Buttermilk is reclined beside the steps like he’s just finished a marathon nobody asked him to run.
Smiling, I shift to reach for my phone, heart tapping an unsure rhythm. I could wait for Lucky to reach out again.
He probably will. He always does.
But I don’t want to wait.
I want to let him know that I’m as interested in seeing him again as he is me. I want to feel that spark again. The one I keep pretending doesn’t mean anything because it scares the crap out of me.
The one that was decidedly missing last night with Nate.
I open our text thread and type: I know you’re probably getting ready for your game so no need to respond. I was thinking… what if I took the lead on date number three?
I hesitate before I send it because this level of forward action and initiation is unusual for me. My old-fashioned principles always seem to wait for the guy to make the arrangements.
But what the hell!
I hit send and set my phone down. He probably won’t see that until after the game tonight, which will be super late my time since he’s on the other side of the country.
To my surprise, my text chimes almost immediately and I scramble to grab it.
It’s him. That depends. Are you asking me out, Ms. Shaw?
I bite my lip, smiling as I reply, I am. When are you free?
The three little dots blink. Then: Tomorrow night. We’re flying a red-eye back.
I start to tap on my screen, but I see the little dots blinking again, indicating he’s got more to say, so I wait.
But I’ll only agree to this third date if there’s a kiss at the end. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a very flirty hostage negotiation.
My heart does a whole cartwheel. I stare at the screen for a second, then type back: That’s a bold assumption.
His reply is an emoji. The purple devil one. It’s a bold request. But I like my odds.
I shake my head, cheeks flushed. Bold indeed.
Which makes me want to be bold in return. How about I cook you dinner?
I wait breathlessly for his reply because surely that will induce further flirting. But I wait, and I wait, and I wait.
My stomach sinks a little, and I think… maybe that was inappropriate. Maybe that’s a level too serious. Maybe… he doesn’t like me in a romantic way and coming to my house would be crossing a casual line?
Brain running away, panic settling in, I start trying to recall the text when his reply chimes in.
Sorry… Atlas threw his jockstrap at me. But yes… dinner at your house is perfect.
I make a tiny squeak of delight and tap out the information before adding: 7 pm. Be prepared for Buttermilk to give you a Spanish Inquisition-style interrogation with only the power of his beady little eyes.
And that’s it. Date number three is officially happening.
And if he’s still as charming and disarming as he was on dates one and two… I might be in trouble.
The best kind.