Chapter 25
Theo
The kitchen was my stage, and Kelly Clarkson was my backing vocals as I shimmied around the island, wooden spoon in hand like a microphone. The apricot glaze bubbled merrily on the stove while I attempted what could generously be called choreography to “Since U Been Gone.”
I did a little spin that nearly sent me crashing into the refrigerator as I belted out the lyrics.
They were a complete lie, of course.
Since Jeremiah entered my life, I’d been doing the opposite of breathing normally. It was more like hyperventilating at regular intervals while my brain short-circuited whenever he smiled at me.
Tonight would be different, though.
Tonight, Debbie would be at Chloe’s birthday party until tomorrow. Julia even volunteered to help corral the little monsters, ensuring nothing could possibly shatter my plans for an entire evening alone with Jeremiah, an entire night and morning, actually, if things went the way I hoped they would.
And the way I was terrified they would.
The way I desperately wanted them to.
As I checked the Brussels sprouts one more time, my mind wandered to territory I’d been carefully avoiding all week. When was the last time I’d actually been with someone? Really been with someone?
It was before Debbie—maybe six months before, maybe longer.
I’d never been particularly active in the dating scene, and even less so sexually.
Atlanta boys would probably try to revoke my gay card if they knew how badly I needed more than just physical attraction; I needed to feel a genuine connection, something that hinted at deeper affection, maybe even love, before I could truly let myself go with another person.
So few men stirred that kind of feeling in me, and most only wanted something quick and uncomplicated. Frankly, the effort of pretending to be interested when I wasn’t, followed by awkward morning-after conversations, had rarely felt worth it.
Once Debbie became my world, my priorities had shifted so radically and so quickly that I’d barely noticed the absence of romantic entanglements.
There were too many bedtime stories to read, too many scraped knees to bandage, too many moments of pure joy watching her discover the world to miss what I’d never really had.
But now, with Jeremiah coming over in less than an hour, the possibility of intimacy was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.
I checked the pork in the oven. It was perfectly golden and probably another ten minutes from done.
The magazine I found while standing in the checkout line at the grocery store had promised this recipe would “impress any dinner guest,” and since I was already in full-scale panic mode about whether I was ready for whatever our night might bring, I figured I might as well panic about the food, too.
Britney Spears took the stage next, and I found myself doing what could only be described as highly aggressive vegetable prep to “Toxic.” Each Brussels sprout got halved with perhaps more violence than was strictly necessary outside of Viking ritual circles.
But hey, I had to work out my excess energy somehow.
What if I’m terrible? I thought, wielding my knife like a tiny sword. What if I’ve forgotten how to be with someone? What if I’m awkward and weird and he realizes I’m just a nervous librarian who talks to books more than people?
Chop. Chop. Whack!
I tossed the Brussels with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic, trying to channel the confident person I’d been at our bookstore dinner. That version of me had held hands and stolen glances and felt like maybe I could do this whole dating thing.
This version of me was having an anxiety attack over vegetables.
I sang along, doing a little white-man-hip-wiggle that would have made Debbie collapse in giggles. The kitchen timer chose that moment to ding, and I pulled the pork out of the oven, the apricot glaze caramelized to perfection.
Maybe I could do this after all.
I was a damn good cook, could’ve probably been a chef; so I knew Jeremiah would be impressed by our meal. Could I pull off the same after dessert?
I was just sliding the Brussels sprouts into the oven when NSYNC started up with “Bye Bye Bye,” and all pretense of cooking went out the window.
This song required full performance mode.
I sang, doing the hand gestures I’d learned from watching the music video approximately five hundred times in college.
I spun around the kitchen island, using my oven mitts as jazz hands, completely lost in the moment.
“Oh my God, what is happening in here? Mr. J, are you . . . dancing?”
I froze mid-spin to find Julia standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, her car keys dangling from one finger, and an expression of pure delight on her face.
“Julia, hi, um, hey.” I tossed down the oven mitts and smoothed back my hair—or tried to. It bounded back out of place, just like always. “How did you get in?”
“Front door was unlocked. I called out, but I don’t think you heard me over your . . . concert.” She was grinning, clearly enjoying my mortification. “Please tell me you’re recording this for posterity. The public needs video evidence.”
“God, no! I’m cooking,” I said defensively, though I was pretty sure my oven-mitts jazz hands had undermined any culinary credibility I might have had.
“Uh-huh. Is choreography part of the recipe?”
“It helps with . . . timing.”
Julia burst out laughing. “Mr. J, you are the biggest dork on the planet, and I mean that with love.”
“Uh, thanks, I think. That’s very reassuring.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, pulling out her phone. “This is going straight to my Insta.”
“Don’t you dare—” I lunged for her phone, but she hopped away with the deftness of a snow leopard leaping off a tree limb. Suddenly, I found myself chasing her around the kitchen island while NSYNC continued their assault on my dignity.
“Come on, show me those moves again!” Julia called out, staying just out of reach. “I want to see the full routine!”
“There is no routine!”
“That spin thing you were doing . . . do it again. And the jazz hands. Those were epic in oven mitts!”
Despite myself, I was laughing. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m seventeen. It’s literally my job to be terrible.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the center of the kitchen. “Dance with me, Mr. J! This is a classic!”
Before I could protest, she was pulling me into some kind of improvised dance that was part swing, part disaster. We spun around the kitchen, both of us laughing and completely off-beat, when a small voice joined the chaos.
“DADDY!”
Debbie appeared in the doorway, her overnight bag clutched in one hand. She assessed the situation with the shrewd eye of a five-year-old police interrogator who recognized fun when she saw it.
“Are you having a dance party without me?” she demanded, dropping her bag and rushing toward us.
“Button, I thought you were—”
But she had already launched herself into the mix, grabbing both our hands and jumping up and down as Kelly Clarkson returned to the stage for yet another fan favorite.
The three of us careened around the kitchen in a tangle of arms and laughter, Debbie singing at the top of her lungs in a voice that was approximately seventy percent enthusiasm and thirty percent actual melody.
None of her words matched the lyrics, which made everything that much funnier.
We all belted out lyrics together, and I realized that this—this ridiculous, chaotic, perfectly imperfect moment—was exactly what happiness felt like.
When the song ended, we collapsed against the kitchen island, all breathing hard and grinning like maniacs.
“That,” Debbie announced, “was the best dance party ever.”
“Agreed,” Julia said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Though next time, we need to work on your choreography, Mr. J. It needs more . . . structure.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“What smells so good?” Debbie asked, suddenly distracted by the kitchen aromas.
“Daddy’s making a fancy dinner for Willie Wee,” I said, then immediately regretted revealing that information in front of Julia.
“Ooooh,” Julia drawled, her grin turning wicked. “A fancy dinner for Willie Wee. Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It’s just dinner,” I protested weakly.
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re stress-cooking gourmet food and having dance parties in your kitchen prior to seeing someone with a nickname usually reserved for female enjoyment.”
“He’s not a . . . female enjoyer,” Debbie said, planting both fists on her hips. “He’s a delivery man with ginormous muscles and the best whisk in the South.”
Julia doubled over wheezing.
“Best whisk . . . in the South . . . I bet he does!”
“Ladies,” I said, attempting my best dad warning tone, only to earn giggles from both of the girls. I blew out a sigh and waved my wooden spoon about the kitchen. “I always cook like this.”
“Mr. J, I’ve seen you cook. Kraft mac and cheese does not require apricot glaze or interpretive dance.”
Debbie had wandered over to peek at the pork, standing on her tiptoes to see onto the top of the stove. “It looks really fancy, Daddy, like restaurant food.”
“Thank you, Button. At least someone appreciates my culinary efforts.”
“Oh, I appreciate them,” Julia said with a smirk. “I just think it’s cute that you’re going to all this trouble to impress your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—” I started, then stopped.
Was he my boyfriend? Were we at that stage? What exactly were we?
“Daddy’s got a boyfriend. Daddy’s got a boyfriend,” Debbie chanted, marching around the kitchen like a tiny conquering hero.
“He’s totally your boyfriend,” Julia said, reading my expression with teenage omniscience. “And he’s lucky to have someone who dances around the kitchen making him gourmet dinners.”
She gathered up Debbie’s bag and headed for the door. “Come on, Little Bug, Chloe’s waiting for us. This is going to be the best sleepover ever.” She paused a heartbeat, then settled her raptor’s gaze on me. “Second best, if I read the room correctly.”
“Julia—”
“Do I have to go?” Debbie asked, looking longingly at the fancy food. “I want to have dinner with Willie Wee, too.”
“Next time,” I promised, kissing the top of her head. “You’re going to have so much fun with Chloe and all your friends.”
“Will you tell him I said hi? And that I hope he likes your fancy cooking?”
“You bet. I’ll tell him.” I kneeled to kiss her forehead and straighten the pink bow in her hair.
She was growing up so fast.
Julia paused at the door, her expression suddenly serious. “You know, Mr. J, I’ve never seen you this happy. It’s . . . nice.”
Before I could respond, they were gone, leaving me alone in my kitchen with the lingering scent of apricot glaze and the echo of 2000s music and laughter.
I looked around at the chaos we’d created—dish towels on the floor, my playlist still playing, the warm glow of satisfaction that came from an impromptu dance party with the people I loved most.
Jeremiah would be here in soon, and I was ready.
Julia was right.
I was happy.