I moved to sit across from her, careful not to let the chair cut along the floorboards. “We met at school.”
After filling the two glasses, Penny slammed the wine bottle down with such force I was surprised that the table didn’t crack, or even the bottle. Her nimble fingers snagged her wine glass, eyes never leaving the swirling liquid. “So you met at school. What, you do his homework for him? Help him pass calculus?”
Ha. I mean, there was that time he cheated off my test.
Wes hurried into the room holding a covered dish of the ziti, placing the pan in the middle of the table. His eyes noted the full wine glasses at the table, and he paused before turning to go grab the other dishes.
“Look at him, playing the perfect host,” Penny said, sniffing her wine. “Walsh is a lot like his father. Always looking for the best in people.” She tilted her head. “I haven’t heard Walsh say anything about you.”
I had to admit, in some kind of twisted way, she did remind me of my own mother and how she interacted with Dad. I couldn’t help but smile a little at that. “I could say the same thing.”
“I’m not his favorite person.” Penny’s eyebrows shot up and down, almost like saying I wonder why, and she ran her hand along her chin. “That boy has no appreciation for his mama.”
Walsh walked in then, holding a bowl with a towel folded over it, and set it down next to the ziti. “What are you talking about?”
Penny gave a wide grimace of a smile. “How my son is just the hero of the needy.”
He took a seat next to me and also took in the full glasses of wine. “I take care of you, don’t I?”
Wes came in with the last bowl of salad, now missing the apron. “Look at me! I think Janet would be proud. I should take a picture and show her.”
“It does look really good,” I agreed, really wanting to dig into those garlic knots.
Wes walked around the table and took the salad tongs, gesturing them toward me. “Sophia, put your salad bowl up here.”
He helped Penny next, who sat back in her chair and watched him with lazy eyes. She ran a hand through her chopped locks, finishing off her first glass of wine. “That’s enough,” she said, putting a hand up.
“Any for you, Walsh?”
He shook his head. “I’m not much of a salad eater; you know that.”
Wes looked at me, explaining, “I keep trying to cure him of his hatred for greens, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it.”
“Carbs do an athlete good. We burn right through salad.”
We got through the first course with no issues. Penny had poured herself another glass of wine but let this one sit for longer. Wes made small talk as he dished out the ziti, the perfect host with the biggest portions. He’d asked me what my parents did for a living and the other routine questions: whether or not I had siblings, how long we lived in the area, what my plans were after high school.
“Sophia writes for the school newspaper,” Walsh told his parents, cutting his ziti with the side of his fork. “She did an amazing article last year about the importance of recyclable straws and how they’re amazing for the environment. She’s working on an article now about baseball.”
I fought the urge to close my eyes. It was bad enough his parents were subject to our fake dating lie, but now I had to involve them in the article? I was a bad person. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing,” Walsh scoffed. “She wants to be a journalist. In the fall, she’s going to be interning at the Bayview Blade.”
“Maybe. I mean, they pick one student from each school, so it’s not guaranteed.” None of it was guaranteed—not even my journalism program.
I took a bite of ziti, all the tastes mixing in my mouth. It was the first time I’d tasted a meal cooked with genuine enthusiasm—usually my mother would heat up frozen meals or my dad would order Chinese for dinner—and it made my mouth water for more. “This is so good, Mr. Hunter.”
Wes’s eyes lit up at the compliment. “I’m glad you think so! I’ll have to save some for Janet so she can taste my success. And package a plate up so you can take it home, of course.”