Chapter 24
To ensure that the bar is sufficiently low regarding Thursday’s potluck dinner, it will be helpful to review several prior experiences involving “family quality time.”
The Soccer Incident. Picture, if you will, a children’s soccer game.
Elementary kids in polyester uniforms, bleachers full of enthusiastic parents, and the overall scent of sweat.
Now add to this scene one camp chair—“I will not perch like a bird for that long, Reginald; I need back support”—where Alvina Berkeley lounges, wearing stilettos and J.
Crew. She has with her several magazines, behind which she promptly disappears.
She does not reappear until a soccer ball flies out of bounds, sails through the air in a graceful arc, and hits her square in the nose, immediately fracturing the nasal bridge with a crunch that witnesses (me) would later describe as “so, so gross.” Never one to waste an opportunity, Alvina seizes this incident as an excuse for rhinoplasty.
Recovery includes one week of nose bandages and bruising consistent with a violent, anything-goes boxing match.
The Road Trip Incident. Alvina gets carsick on long trips, and she does not suffer in silence.
I don’t necessarily blame her; nausea is horrible.
But on this particular journey, a three-day-weekend trip to New York City, we failed to restock her supply of Dramamine.
As such, we were ten miles outside of New Windsor, New York, when she threw up all over herself and the passenger seat.
We were then required to stop in New Windsor, rent a hotel room for less than five hours, purchase new clothing, and allow Alvina a shower and a nap before setting back out.
On the whole, I think the potluck dinner tonight will have to be better than either of these experiences. It may be stilted and awkward, but the food will be good, the duration short, and no vomit or broken noses will be involved.
I’ve made myself very at home in Dominic’s shed.
The squashy couch has now been covered in an old set of sheets, and before I had my pumpkin bread last night, I dug out a few blankets from the closet too.
Before I leave for work—another busy festival day—I brush my teeth in the bathroom at the back of the shed.
I pull on my jeans, tank top, and cardigan, and I’m about to head out the door when I remember today is the costume parade on Main.
I think for a second and then grin; I change shirts, grab exactly one prop, shove it in my bag, and head straight out the door.
It’s nice, having everything I need here.
I drive with my windows down on the way out of Dom’s neighborhood, but I don’t go straight to Bugelbach’s.
The parade will be starting soon, so I go to the hardware store instead and park in the back lot.
I round the building and emerge onto a bustling Main Street, filled with the shrieks of laughing children in costume and even some pets on leashes.
I stroll down the street with my bag over my shoulder, my eyes searching for Dominic. My smile widens when I spot him, and even though my stomach still flutters when I think about last night, I make my way in his direction.
He spots me through the crowd, well before we’re close enough to talk. I stop when our eyes meet, pull his old blue baseball hat out of my bag, and then put it on.
It’s enormously rewarding to see his expression as he looks me over. His gaze goes from the still-warped hat on my head—his—and then down to my black shirt—also his. He folds his arms slowly, shaking his head as he bites back a smile.
“What do you think?” I say when I reach him, my lips twitching. “I’m you.”
“Spitting image,” he says as his smile finally breaks free too.
I nod and glance down at my clothes. “I just need to get in your pants and the outfit will be complete—” But I slap my hand over my mouth in horror when I realize what I’ve said.
Dom’s eyes fly wide open too, his jaw dropping.
“Oh—no,” I say as my skin heats and panic jumps in my chest. “No, no!” I gesture frantically.
“No. I didn’t—that’s not what I meant.” I can feel myself starting to sweat.
“I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to get in your pants.
I don’t even like pants.” The words tumble helplessly from my mouth, but I babble on.
“Well, I mean, I like some pants, obviously”—a nervous laugh escapes me—“Just not...yours.”
Dom’s shock is melting into faint amusement, although there’s an undeniable flush creeping up his neck. “There’s no need to insult my pants,” he says now, looking down at his jeans.
“I’m so sweaty!” I groan, airing out my shirt and then fanning my face. “I didn’t mean to say that. I panicked. Your pants are fine. Forget the last thirty seconds. Wipe them from your memory.”
He tilts his head down in a mock bow, smirking. “I’ll do what I can.” Then he shrugs. “But my clothes have, historically, always looked better on you. So if you want a pair—”
“No pants,” I snap, still fanning my face. This entire situation has backfired miraculously. “I’m going to work.” Then I stomp off toward Berk’s.
Dom’s laughter bids me goodbye.
It’s hard to describe how bizarre it is, attending a potluck dinner with my mother, Daryl, and his family.
The entire basement of our little white church smells incredible. The scent of the potluck is strong, but the good kind of strong—soups and casseroles and bread and desserts. I inhale deeply when I arrive, a smile stretching across my face.
I wish I could say I’ve moved on from this morning’s pants incident, but that would be a lie.
So when I step into the church’s activity room, my eyes search for Dom first. A sigh of relief escapes me when he’s nowhere to be found, even though I know he’ll be here shortly.
I head over to the table in the corner that’s occupied by his sisters, who are chatting together.
They both look apprehensive, and I don’t blame them.
None of us are thrilled our parents are dating.
Rosie and Emma both smile when I join them at the otherwise empty table.
“Hi!” Rosie says.
“Hey,” I say, looking around again to see if anyone else is here, but Daryl and Alvina haven’t come yet, either. “How are you guys?”
“Good,” they say in unison, and I smile.
“Emma, you work over at the library, right?” I say. I don’t know Emma as well as Rosie, but I’ve seen her around my whole life, and I’ve always liked her. Now her eyes brighten behind her cute glasses.
“I do!” she says. “I’m a children’s librarian.”
“I heard you once corralled the family into dressing up as Dr. Seuss characters for Halloween,” I say, my lips twitching as I remember what Dom told me. “Are there pictures of that?”
She laughs. “I did do that one year, and it was so cute. There are billions of pictures—I made sure of it.” She pauses, glancing at Rosie. “Did you tell her that?”
“Dom told me,” I say. “We’ve been in touch”—what a horribly weird way to say we used to date—“about our parents. Dating, I mean.” An awkward silence falls between us, and it’s not at all helped by the sudden arrival of the aforementioned dating parents.
Alvina does not enter rooms quietly. Even though there’s already a pleasant buzz of conversation going on around the activity room, her voice can be heard over the masses as she calls to me: “Reese, darling, you made it.”
I turn and give her a weak wave, watching as her eyes scan what she can see of my outfit; I doubt Dominic’s old shirt counts as something “fit for a potluck” in her mind. Her lips purse in disapproval only briefly, though, because Daryl is behind her, and she turns to speak to him instead.
“Here they are,” I say in a voice full of false cheer. Emma and Rosie both nod with similar sentiments written all over their faces. Rosie’s expression brightens a second later as she spots someone, though, and she waves toward the entrance.
“Dom!”
Because I possess self-control and no small amount of lingering embarrassment, I do not turn in my seat to look at Dominic. I wait until our table is joined by him, Alvina, and Daryl.
“Oh,” Rosie says, looking surprised as Dominic settles into his seat next to her.
He’s dressed the same as he was this morning—short sleeves despite the cool weather, muscles on prime display, the feather necklace tucked beneath his shirt.
“You smell good.” She leans closer and sniffs.
“What is that? Do you have new cologne?”
His gaze locks with mine, his lips twitching when he sees I’m still wearing his shirt. “Nutmeg,” he says. His voice is easy, but his eyes aren’t; they’re searing as they bore into me. “New soap.” Then, so casually I could kick him, he adds, “Are you feeling okay, Reese? You look flushed.”
“Just fine,” I gurgle around my own spit. It’s mostly to reassure Daryl, who looks at me with concern. Alvina doesn’t seem bothered about my health either way. Then I pull out my phone and send one furious message.
Me
Did you use my bodywash???
I watch Dominic check his texts. A faint smirk flits over his lips, and a second later, my phone buzzes in my lap.
Dominic
If it’s in my shower, it belongs to me, Berkeley.
Remember that the next time you’re here.
I momentarily forget how to breathe.
“Dominic is actually right, Reese,” Rosie says from across the table, sounding worried.
My head snaps up, my brows jumping. “What?” I say faintly.
“You do look a little warm,” she says. “Do you feel feverish at all?”
“Yes,” I say. “Or—no. Not feverish. Warm.” I clear my throat and fan my face, trying to get some air. “It’s warm in here.” Then I scoot my chair out and stand up, sending a covert glare at Dom, who’s still smirking. “Let’s grab some food.”
Anything to change the subject.
The rest of the Harpers follow suit, rounding the table and heading for the food. Dominic glances over his shoulder at me as he passes, but I ignore this as I pull out my phone. It’s just begun to ring, and I’m a coward who would rather put off the inevitable dinner for a bit longer.