Chapter Seventeen #2
Everything goes exactly as Madison envisioned.
She stays in Lindsey’s room with me until dinner and leaves the second Sean’s mom invites us to stay.
Now I’m sitting at their dining table, one big happy family, while soft jazz drifts from a speaker in the corner.
The whole room feels cozy, like a house that’s always had people to fill it.
Sean’s mom beams at me as I ask if there’s anything I can help with. “No, we’re just happy to have you.”
Sean’s dad sets a basket of bread in front of me. “I hear you’re working on a history project with Sean and Josie?”
“It’s a lot of fun. I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy a school project, but I got lucky with my partners.”
Sean raises an eyebrow. “I’m recording this.”
His mom laughs. “I’m glad you’re having fun. Get my son to relax a little! He works too hard. We even talked him out of taking AP World History. Surely a 4.72 weighted GPA is enough?”
His dad grins. “Yeah, the day he got an A- in German was the darkest day in this family. We almost held a vigil.”
Sean frowns. “I need to show I can handle a tough course load.”
How does Lindsey feel about having a brother like Sean?
It must be exhausting, living in the shadow of his perfect grades.
There was definitely a faint twinge of jealousy when Jeremy won the state debating championship, even though I’m not supposed to compete with him.
Maybe it’s the same for her, constantly trying to measure up to the untouchable golden child.
“Lindsey’s the creative one in this family.” Sean’s mom lifts a fork of mashed potatoes to her mouth. “She writes the best stories.”
“They’re not bad,” Sean agrees. “My favorite is the one about the Everest expedition.” He glances at me and explains, “It’s a survival story with supernatural elements and psychological tension. Gets dark fast.”
“Mine’s ‘The Road Trip.’” His dad gets up, opens a drawer, and pulls out a handful of mismatched takeout napkins and tosses them onto the table. “I keep wondering what happens to those kids.”
“That one’s ominous too. Messes with your head,” Sean says to me, catching me up, and my heart melts a little. Kindness like that is underrated; it sneaks up on you.
“I love a good psychological thriller,” I say.
“It’s not that great.” Lindsey’s face flushes against her dark ringlets. “I have these stories in my head sometimes, and I must get them on paper.”
“I love reading all your writing.” Sean’s mom smiles.
My stomach churns, even though the food is delicious. Somewhere on earth, people eat dinner with their parents every night—parents who read their work and know everything about the courses they’re taking.
“You guys really lucked out with these two,” I say, and they laugh.
“Well, we never have to worry much about Linz.” Sean’s dad fills his glass with tap water. “But Sean has his cranky teenager moments. Remember how bitter and cynical you were in middle school?”
Sean grimaces. “Dad! I may doubt the world sometimes, but I was never bitter.”
“He’s pretty bitter to me,” Lindsey says. “Flora is the one who takes care of me at school.”
“True.” Sean nods. “Flora’s been an amazing friend to Lindsey.”
“Thanks, that’s very kind.” His dad sets a bowl of salad in front of me. “She’s ecstatic to go to school because of you.”
“I didn’t really do that much.” With or without Sean, spending time with Lindsey is easy. “I only sat with her the first week, now she’s got loads of friends of her own. She’s delightful and everyone loves her.”
“I could say the same about you.” Sean’s mom places her hand on my wrist for one second, and I want to hug her. I want to hug this whole dining room.
A comfortable lull settles over the table.
I take a bite of grilled salmon and sigh.
“I went to this Michelin-starred place in Napa once with my parents, and they served the most incredible whole grilled sea bass. It was buttery soft and melty.” I wipe my hands on the recycled paper napkin.
“Mr. Foster, this salmon takes me right back. It’s delicious. ”
He chuckles, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re exaggerating.”
Beside me, Sean shifts, smiling good-naturedly. “Maybe you should stop going to Michelin restaurants if you can’t tell the difference.”
“I don’t lie about food,” I say, “and home-cooked meals are such a luxury.”
“I’d rather we get Chick-fil-A, to be honest,” Lindsey says.
“No one in this house appreciates my talent.” Sean’s dad sighs. “You’re welcome to dinner any time.”
When dinner wraps up, Sean pushes his chair back and stands up.
I stand too. “I’ll help clean up.”
As the rest of his family moves into the living room to watch TV, I pick up a plate from the table.
“Hey, I’ve got it,” Sean says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You hate loading the dishwasher.”
“Your mom was nice enough to ask me to stay, it’s the least I can do. Thanks for having me,” I say.
“No, thank you for staying. It’s nothing fancy, but my parents like you. Having you here makes them happy.”
We grab the same plate at once, and he looks at me when I don’t let go. “And are you happy I stayed?” I ask.
“It’s one more plate to wash, but I can tolerate it.” He lets go and picks up the glasses instead. Then he sneaks a peek at the living room and lowers his voice. “So, I finally met Lindsey’s soulmate. But only because they needed a ride to mini golf.”
Fine, change the subject. “Let me guess, you don’t approve of him.”
He carries the glasses to the kitchen. “They sat in the back seat whispering and were all over each other while I drove in front like a chauffeur. If there’d been a glass divider between us, they would’ve pulled it shut.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t try sucking up to you. If I was dating someone’s sister I’d make sure I was on good terms with the older, more popular brother. Maybe ask you pointers on how to get deltoids like yours.”
“Oh, that’s easy. Use crutches,” he says, then smiles with a trace of affection as he pulls open the dishwasher. “Only you’d compliment me on my deltoids.”
We lapse into a moment of silence.
Our fingers touch occasionally as we pass the plates, and my heart thuds each time it happens. Ridiculous. This is a boy I’ve done a lot of things with. I’ve touched plenty of places that are way more off-limits than his hands, and yet here I am, freaking out over our fingers grazing.
I clear my throat. “So, this was fun. Nice to take a break from the history play, even though that’s fun too.”
“Yeah, you said that. And you feel lucky to be paired with me? This is new,” Sean says.
“I can change my mind, can’t I?” I peer up at him through my lashes. “I appreciate that you put up with my ideas with mild amusement.”
“Mild amusement? Try excruciating reluctance.”
“When I get upset, you drop the arrogant act. And even though you can be intolerably stubborn, at the end of the day, you’re willing to listen.”
He makes a small sound between snorting and chuckling. “Is this a compliment or . . . ? Because all I’m hearing is arrogant and intolerable.”
“I’m saying I love working with you.”
Our eyes lock. There’s a certain softness in his gaze, the same way he looked when he used to call me button. He bites his lip, and my heart stumbles. It’s so hard not to like him.
“When you look at me like that,” I say, “I really, really want to kiss you.”
He stares at me, eyes wide, beautiful, not blinking. I raise my chin and hold his gaze. Then he leans in, his lips parted slightly.
I close my eyes.
A soft, light peck lands. On my cheek.
My eyes snap open. “Whoa, a kiss on the cheek? Can I post about this and let the internet decode it?” I muse out loud. “Is he testing the waters? Telling me to stay away? Hallucinating and seeing his aunt?”
“It means you’re cute.” He laughs. “But stop flirting with me.”
I scratch my chin. “Hmm. Then how do I say ‘I think you’re cute, too, but I want to keep flirting with you’?
” Not giving him time to react, I lean in and kiss him back—also on the cheek.
Then I draw back, frowning. “Wait, not sure I said it well enough. Let me try saying it more slowly this time . . .”
He chuckles, taking a step back.
“Maybe with a British accent?” I press on.
He picks up the dish towel and swats at me, laughing. I laugh along with him, trying to remember the last time I had such a marvelous evening.