broccoli roasting in the oven.
My tiptoe onto the scale this morning revealed a mind-boggling, four-pound weight loss. My first not credited to the stomach flu or bad hangover in years. Not since I did that low-carb, lettuce and carrot diet for my co-worker’s destination wedding five years ago had I seen a purposeful drop like this.
Who knew chasing after a shirtless bad boy hunk in the predawn hours could be such great exercise? Oh, right. Literally everyone.
I was feeling…gosh, what was that warm, bright feeling in my chest? Indigestion? No. It was more glowy, less burny. Was that hope? It had been so long since I’d felt it, I didn’t even recognize it. I’d lived the last decade or so in constant fear of losing jobs, health insurance, the security of a relationship. I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel hopeful about the future.
Dad poked his head in the pantry and pulled out a bottle of wine. He waggled it at me. “You look like you’re in a good mood,” he squawked. “Should we celebrate?”
“Why not?” I said, pulling down two dusty wineglasses from the cabinet. My parents’ kitchen had been updated once. In the early eighties when Zinnia and I were rambunctious toddlers. The backsplash was a yellow and orange tile mosaic that absolutely did not match the brown Formica countertops. But as displeasing to the eyes as it was, it was the place I felt most at home.
Dad pulled the cork out with an enthusiastic pop and poured to the rim. I laughed and sipped without picking the glass up so as not to spill it.
“Oh, hello.” Byron the guest poked his head into the kitchen. He was close to seven feet tall and very, very pale. His hair was the color and texture of straw. It stuck out at odd angles, at least from what I could see without breaking my neck. His glasses were red, and his pants were three inches too short.
“Hey there, Byron! How’s your stay?” my dad squeaked.
I couldn’t imagine this scarecrow of a man was very comfortable in Zinnia’s double bed. His legs probably hung off the mattress up to the knee.
“It’s quite lovely. Thank you.” He stared pointedly at the slow cooker. We all did.
“Would you like to join us for dinner?” I offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he said, now eyeing the bottle of wine. I recognized that look. Hope.
“It’s no problem,” I told him.
My parents shoveled the pork roast and vegetables into their faces as if their last meal had been Styrofoam six days ago. Apparently none of their retirement hobbies had translated into any skills in the kitchen.
Byron ate daintily with a fork in one hand and knife in the other, looking up every bite to gaze lovingly around the table.
“So, Marley,” Dad said around a mouthful of broccoli. “How’s the soccer team coming?”
“We’re doing okay. We still have no offense to speak of, but I think I might have solved that problem this afternoon.”
“Did you go Tonya Harding on the opposing team’s offensive line?” Mom asked.
“No. But I did find a ringer. Fingers crossed she shows up tomorrow.”
Byron immediately crossed his pinky and ring fingers and smiled broadly.
“Good for you,” Mom said. “Now, when were you going to tell us that you’re dating Jake Weston?”
I choked on my wine. Tears glassed over my eyes as the merlot burned its way into my lungs.
“And for God’s sake,” my mother plowed on as she shoveled more pork onto her plate, “why didn’t you at least invite him in for breakfast this morning?”
“I, er…” I couldn’t tell them the truth. Neither one of them could keep a secret. They’d practically handed Zinnia and me itemized inventories of our Christmas presents in November because they were too excited to keep quiet. By the time Christmas Day rolled around, the wrapping was purely ceremonial.
Byron was stuffing dainty bites of pork into his mouth and watching the conversation like a tennis match.
“Jake Weston?” Dad asked. “Is he the one with the mustache or the one who covers the rust spots on his Volvo with NPR bumper stickers?”
“Neither,” my mother said. “He’s the one who got caught making out with a substitute teacher in the darkroom his junior year.”
“He’s the cross-country coach, Dad,” I said, pointedly reminding them that some of us grew up. “And history teacher.”
“Oh. Who’s the guy with the Volvo?” he asked.
My parents and Byron, weirdly enough, insisted on handling clean up. So I packed up a dish of leftovers