“Really?”
“Yep.” And I leave it at that. My past doesn’t have a seat at this table.
“Okay,” Byron says to get our attention. “The lasagna is ready.”
Ronnie rushes to finish her salad. “Yippppeeee! I’ve got lotsa room.”
“The pan is really hot. It’ll be easier to serve on the stove.”
“Message received.” I collect our plates and bring them to where he’s standing.
“Thank you.”
I almost startle at his words. Between the dark severity in his stare and the deep notes of his timbre, it’s obvious that he’s not just talking about the dishes. I’m suspended in his magnetic hold for several rapid beats of my heart. We don’t look away, somehow tethered together by this unknown gravity. A shiver races up my spine like an icy finger. It’s enough to free me from his trance.
“It’s nothing,” I whisper.
“It’s everything.”
Now I’m stunned speechless. Meanwhile, Byron gives each of us a heaping portion as if he didn’t just knock me sideways. Gratitude is such a simple, often overlooked concept. Most don’t give it a second thought. It’s monumental to me, especially coming from him.
There’s a sudden burn along the bridge of my nose. The last thing I need is to cry in front of Byron. Just the other day, we were heckling each other. Tonight, I can barely look at him without fidgeting.
My jaded exterior is usually reliable, but right now, it’s nowhere to be found. An onslaught of doubt pours over me like a fat storm cloud. What am I doing here, pretending to belong? It’s a joke. I’m a fraud.
While ignoring the lump in my throat, I drop my gaze and snag the filled plates. I scurry back to the table as if in a hurry to stuff my face. In all honesty, my appetite shrivels with each passing moment.
“Someone’s in a hurry to dig in,” Byron jokes while following close behind.
Like so many times before, I’m mesmerized as he swoops down to press a kiss on Ronnie’s head. She snuggles into his side for a quick embrace. Tingles spread across my chest as I take it in from afar. Their affection is warm and effortless and awe-inspiring. It’s also foreign to me. Just one more reminder that I’m an outsider.
But they chose to include me in their small circle, which is more significant than my intrusive thoughts.
Byron lifts his chin at my untouched food, interrupting my spiral. “Well?”
“I’m waiting for you to sit.” And drag my gaze away from the tender scene he creates with his daughter.
“Considerate,” he grunts, taking his seat at the head of the table. “But we aren’t that formal. You should know that by now.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I pin him with a glare and blindly load my fork with what smells like the best lasagna in creation. “Prepare to be judged on this recipe you’ve been bragging about. I’m not a kind critic.”
My features flatline into a stony mask as I slap down some much needed snark and sass. That’s more like it. I’m just off my game.
But that freshly reclaimed bravado vanishes the instant the food touches my tongue.
One bite is packed with more flavor than I can comprehend. I flutter my lashes while instantly surrendering. The layers mix together in a tasteful burst that’s meant to render me senseless. It’s saucy and melty and more decadent than lasagna has the right to be. That’s my only excuse for what happens next.
“Ohhhhh. Myyyyy. Gahhhhh,” I moan loudly.
Ronnie lunges toward me, ready to leap across the table to my rescue. “Are you okay, Frannie?”
“Uh, yep. It’s just… um,” I grapple for an excuse, but fail against the savory punch. “Gosh, you know what? This is soooo delicious.”
The little girl bobs her head with enthusiasm. “Daddy’s a super good cook. My tummy is happy. Yum, yum.”
“Mhmm,” I agree, my mouth packed full.
Byron smirks. His cocky expression is well earned. “It’s my mother’s famous lasagna. One of the few things she left behind before leaving.”