Chapter 8
Grace
I’m somewhere I never thought I’d be: Danny’s very grown up, very gigantic house.
Agreeing to come back to Danny’s house after ten years of silence was an…interesting choice for me. Compared to previous interesting choices I’ve made, I put this one in between my fedora phase and saying “cool beans” unironically.
The outside boasts three stories of brown brick.
It has two tall windows on either side of the double-entry door.
The inside is modern, airy, and spacious with high ceilings in the foyer.
Every visible wall is painted the color of oatmeal, a sharp contrast to the rich colors in his childhood home.
I wander into the massive open-concept kitchen, staring at its white marble countertops, high-tech fridge, and professional oven.
Danny never used to cook, but surely he uses this fancy kitchen in some capacity.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I gesture to the magazine-worthy space and cannot help but ask him, “When did you stop eating s’mores-flavored toaster pastries for breakfast every day?”
Danny has the decency to look sheepish as he walks over to the other side of the kitchen. He slowly opens a cupboard above the fridge, revealing what can only be described as a doomsday prepper amount of s’mores flavored toaster pastries.
“Let me get this straight. You have a chef’s kitchen with a robot refrigerator and still haven’t taken the time to learn how to cook?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not a robot fridge, Gracie.”
I squint at his spaceship fridge, which I’m pretty sure NASA used as a prototype for the Mars Rover. “Danny, this fridge has a calculator. It does math.”
“It’s a scale and basic unit measurements!”
I think he’s getting genuinely frustrated now, and I can’t help but giggle. I forgot how much I enjoy teasing him. “Don’t come crying to me when it kills you in the middle of the night. It’s not my fault that you welcomed the second generation of AI into your home.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “If it could kill me, I’d already be dead.”
The doorbell rings and Danny leaves to get the food. I pat my pocket twice to make sure the letter hasn’t vanished and try to keep my nerves in check.
A few minutes later, he returns with two large brown paper bags of food and sets them on the island.
I take a seat at the dining room table, which is extraordinarily long, with seven chairs on either side and then one at each end.
It looks like a place where villains might gather to scheme their world domination.
Scrutinizing the natural wood, I can’t help but wonder if they cut down an entire tree just for this table like that one celebrity in a magazine article I read.
This train of thought leads me to think about what animals were in the tree when they cut it down and if they found a new habitat.
“It’s reclaimed wood.” Danny’s voice cuts through my thought spiral.
He’s been closely studying my expressions ever since I stepped foot inside his house.
“Did you really think that I would ever commission custom wood from a freshly chopped forest tree when there could be a little squirrel family in there? The Oak Mural Incident of 2002 is forever burned into my brain.”
“School administrations can’t just cut down a tree in the woods behind the building with no regards to wildlife, Danny.
You saw the bunnies in the burrow with your own eyes.
Someone had to call the Ohio Department of Natural Resources’ Division of Forestry.
” I lift my chin and huff. “I was the only one brave enough to do it.”
“Of course, Gracie. I, too, was shocked and appalled at the thought of unhoused bunnies. And actually, if I’m not mistaken, you still hold the title of America’s Youngest Whistleblower,” he teases, winding me up in a way only he can.
His lopsided grin grows wider, and the mischievous glint in his eyes is the same one that bet me a milkshake he’d only moonwalk for an entire Saturday.
The corners of my lips tick up, remembering how quickly he lost the bet (hard to backslide up the stairs).
His logic, while playful, wasn’t always sound.
A dull ache, the one that formed ten years ago when we separated, pangs in my stomach. God, I’ve missed this.
I give my head a quick shake, refocusing on the topic at hand. “Regardless, I’m glad you used reclaimed wood for this excessively giant table where you…host mafia families?”
The little space between his teeth makes an appearance. “Try again.”
“The Original Broadway Cast of Hamilton meets here for book club on Fridays?”
His smile reaches his ears. “Nope.”
“A coven of vampires gather to talk baseball strategy?”
Danny presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. “No, that’s not it.”
“I’m all out of guesses.”
He nods solemnly. “Sure, that was an exhaustive list, what with the cast of Hamilton and the vampire baseball.”
“Don’t forget the mafia.”
“Right, the mafia,” he muses, his eyes bright.
“It’s usually just me in here. And I sit over there.
” He gestures at the rectangular marble kitchen island with two stools on either side.
“You good with us eating dinner there now, or should we continue to hash out how well-endowed my dining room table is?”
I ignore that comment, hoping the flustered feeling won’t translate into a blush. Considering my stomach and the contents of this conversation, I walk over to the island. “I am hungry. Shockingly enough, the pint of neon orange nacho cheese I consumed at the game didn’t manage to stick to my ribs.”
“Dinner it is.” Danny claps his hands together.
He moves around the kitchen grabbing plates, cups, and napkins before opening the bags. After Danny hands me my burger, he starts picking up fries from his plate and adding them to mine.
Shaking my head, I put a few fries back on his plate. “If I wanted fries, I would’ve ordered them.”
“Stop kidding yourself, Gracie. Your subconscious and I both know you’ll be eating my fries.”
“Maybe I’ve changed,” I protest.
He stops mid-fry and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, have you?”
“Is there ketchup?”
He nods, looking exceedingly happy with himself.
I roll my eyes and daintily pop a fry in my mouth.