a laugh from Tory and he drags his tired legs up the step and across my porch, reaching out his hand.
“Much better. You sure about that cocoa, though?” He cocks a brow, somehow able to charm a real hard-ass like my mom with his personality. Her lips pucker with the smile of a blushing school girl, but he doesn’t have her completely fooled.
Patting her hand on his cheek a few times, she says, “I’ll get you a bib.”
My mom leads us inside and Tory glances at me with a wry smile.
“I see where you get it,” he says.
As my mom is riffling through our cabinets looking for stray packets of hot chocolate, Tory takes a meandering tour of the state of my home. Our house isn’t as big as his, and it isn’t fancy by any means, but it is historic.
“It was my grandparents’ house on Mom’s side. My grandfather built it,” I say, feeling the need to narrate his experience. He runs a hand along a wooden sill under a stained glass window that overlooks our dining table.
“It must be a pretty cool feeling to stand back when you hammer in that last nail and see a house you put together.” He continues to touch the little details, like the corner nook bookcase that holds my grandmother’s dishes, and the chair railing that lines almost every wall, from the front door on to the back of the house.
Eventually, he turns his attention to the table, littered with documents and my mom’s two spare pair of reading glasses haphazardly tossed in the mix. It’s strange having him here, especially when Hayden usually stops at the door. It’s as if I’ve unintentionally built two worlds, one where the boy I’m dating kisses me in his car and takes me out for burgers, and this one, where shit feels hard. Tory, he can walk in between.
“This is the best I could do,” my mom says, walking over with two mugs in her hand, the strings from what look like tea bags dangling from the side. She carefully sets them on the edge of the table before clearing a little space by stacking folder on top of folder.
“You like tea?” I quirk a brow at Tory.
“Love it,” he answers, for my mom’s benefit, while shaking his head no to me. I pucker a smile.
We pull out chairs and sit, the rounded corner of the table barely dividing us, and I lift my mug to dunk the bag up and down. I wiggle my brows to Tory to hint that he can do the same until my mom leaves. He does.
“Tory, it was very nice to meet the older version of you. Please, if you’re going to throw up, the powder room is . . .” My mom points to the door under the stairwell.
“Thank you, Ms. Cortez,” Tory plays along.
“Call me Denise,” she insists. She turns her focus to me.
“Baby, I’m done. I’ll see you in the morning.” My mom moves to stand behind me so she can kiss the top of my head. As she does, I reach an arm up and hug her from behind.
“Don’t forget the pencil,” I say as she shuffles away. A glance over my shoulder catches her pulling it out and tossing it on the small table where we drop our keys. She heads up the stairs with heavy thumps, and when she’s out of sight, Tory puts his mug down and pulls off his sweatshirt.
“We like the heat in the winter.” I grimace.
“It’s fine,” he says, his head finally free from the fabric. He runs his hand through his hair a few times to straighten it, then rolls the sweatshirt up and sets it on the table. He’s still wearing his practice jersey and shorts.
“Long day?” I look him up and down.
He blows out a long stream of air and stares at me, the amped part of him finally seeming calm.
“Longest ever,” he says.
He twists in his chair so he faces the table and pulls my script toward him, the pages now curling from me reading and carrying it around.
“You up for a little reading?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I don’t think you have it in you,” I respond.
His lips pout for a second but eventually he nods and pushes the paper away, clearly exhausted.
“You’re probably right.”
I study him while he scans the contents of my table, all the ugly and exciting things about my life on display. It’s like the ingredients for Abby soup, a