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, catchingNathan’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.