Chapter 16 Diane
Diane
The pizza parlor is neon-lit and unapologetically loud, the kind of place where a quarter buys you sixty seconds of glory, and the only salad is iceberg lettuce beneath a snowdrift of ranch.
Booths line the windows in red vinyl, sticky and cratered with the scars of a thousand Friday nights.
In the corner, a pair of plastic dinosaurs battle for dominance atop a faux-volcano, and the air smells of dough, sugar, and deep-fried mozzarella sticks.
Cassie makes a beeline for the trophy display. There’s a local Little League Hall of Fame on one wall, the rest crammed with bobbleheads and Polaroids of past pizza-eating champions. She holds her own trophy next to a gold-plated soccer ball, comparing their weights with scientific rigor.
We crowd into a booth near the arcade entrance, the pizza menu laminated and curling at the corners. Nathan slides in beside me, and Cassie takes the outside seat so she can keep an eye on the Skee-Ball machine.
“I want pepperoni and black olives,” she announces.
Nathan raises an eyebrow at me. “Objections?”
“None,” I say. “Just no pineapple.”
“We can all agree on that,” he says.
The server comes by, hair in a cloud of scrunchie and flyaways, and takes our order. She doesn’t blink at the odd geometry of our trio, just asks if we want pitchers of soda or water for the table.
“Root beer, please,” Cassie says, with all the authority of a CEO.
When the server leaves, Cassie produces her trophy again, polishing it with a napkin. “Do you think they’ll let me put this in the school office?” she asks.
“I think they’d be fools not to,” Nathan says. “That’s a seriously competitive trophy.”
Cassie beams, then leans into the table conspiratorially. “I heard they used to have an ‘insect of the year’ trophy, but the last principal was scared of them. So, they stopped giving it out after someone brought a praying mantis to the awards ceremony, and it got loose.”
Nathan looks at me, mock-serious. “This is why I love science. The surprises never end.”
The root beer arrives, sloshing in a heavy plastic pitcher. We toast, clinking our glasses over the table, and I let myself dissolve into the noise and the sugar high, the small miracle of a good night after a bad day.
Cassie is full of postmortems. “Did you see the Rube Goldberg machine? It used a real hamster. He was supposed to run on the wheel, but he just fell asleep. The whole thing was a disaster.”
“Hamsters are notoriously unreliable,” Nathan points out, a half-smile creeping up his face. “Should’ve used a gerbil instead.”
Cassie snorts so hard she almost spills her drink, then wipes her chin with the back of her hand. “What was your science fair project when you were a kid?” she asks Nathan.
He leans back, hands behind his head. “I tried to make a robot shark. I glued a tin can to a remote-control car and used tinfoil for fins. It barely moved, and the paint smelled like old cheese, but I was very proud.”
“Cool,” says Cassie, impressed.
The pizza arrives, still volcanically hot, cheese stretching in long, sticky filaments.
We each grab a slice, and for several minutes the only sounds are chewing and the distant ringing of an arcade jackpot.
I watch Cassie’s face as she eats. She savors each bite, as if every new flavor is a tiny adventure.
After two slices and a refill of root beer, she wipes her hands, then asks if she can have some quarters for the games?
I check my purse. There’s a stash of change just for this purpose, a habit carried over from the days when a handful of coins could buy ten minutes of quiet. I hand her a few dollars in quarters.
Nathan adds his own. “Go wild. Just not actual wild. The manager hates it when kids climb inside the claw machine.”
Cassie grins, pocketing the loot. “I’ll come back when I run out.”
She’s gone in a blink, sneakers squeaking over the linoleum, and we both watch her weave through the crowd of birthday parties and baseball teams.
Suddenly, it’s just Nathan and me, the stretch of red vinyl between us charged with something electric and unfinished.
He takes a long drink, sets the mug down. “She’s really something.”
“Yeah.” I pick at the edge of a pepperoni, unsure if he means the project or the person. “She’s tougher than she lets on.”
“I noticed,” he says. His eyes are on Cassie, but he’s clearly working up to something else.
The conversation stalls, and in the pause, I feel the weight of the day press into my shoulders. I glance sideways, catching Nathan’s reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser. He’s nervous, which is new.
“What?” I say, half-laugh.
“Nothing. Just… You’re a good mom.”
I blink, caught off guard by the directness. “Most days I don’t feel like one.”
He shrugs. “She wouldn’t be the person she is if you weren’t.”
It’s a simple statement, but it hits deep. I look down at my hands, tracing the line of my lifeline, and try not to cry in a pizza parlor. “Thank you.”
He clears his throat, eyes fixed on a slice he’s not eating. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime.”
“We are out,” I say, teasing, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
“I mean, on a real date. No science fairs or pizza trophies. Just you and me and perhaps, dinner.”
The words hang, suddenly enormous. I watch Cassie at the Skee-Ball, winding up for a perfect score, the tiny orange balls blurring through the air. She’s focused, determined, and absolutely alive.
A real date.
“Sure,” I say, surprising myself with the speed of my response. “That might be nice.”
He beams, wide and sudden, then does a victory gesture so dorky I burst out laughing.
Cassie returns, breathless and sweaty, clutching a plastic ring she’s won at the prize counter. She looks from me to Nathan and back, antennae up. “Why are you guys being weird?”
“We’re not,” I say, maybe too quickly. “Are you having fun?”
She shrugs, then sits down, sliding the ring onto her pinkie. “It glows in the dark. They said you can see it from space.”
“You’ll have to let us know if any satellites call,” says Nathan.
She rolls her eyes, then leans against my arm, content and tired.
We finish the pizza, then gather our leftovers and walk out into the wet-blue dusk.
The air is thick with the promise of summer storms, and as we cross the parking lot, I catch our reflection in the restaurant window—three shapes, two grown and one growing, huddled under a single, unreliable umbrella.
Nathan offers to drive us home, and Cassie, half-asleep in the back seat, hums along to the radio. The roads are dark and empty, and when we pull up to the cottage, Nathan gets out and walks us to the door.
I hesitate there, hand on the knob, searching for the right words. There’s no script for this part.
“Thank you,” I say, “for today.”
“You’re welcome.” He leans in, slow, a question asked and answered before it’s finished. The kiss on my cheek is soft, so brief I barely have time to register it, but when he pulls away, I feel it for hours after.
He waves goodnight and heads back to his car. I watch until the taillights disappear, then go inside, where Cassie is already curled up on the couch with Rolo, the trophy on the coffee table like a beacon.
I sit beside her, take her hand, and let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, the world is ready to give us another chance.