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“Just dinner,” I say, feeling a little guilty about not confessing it’s more than that to me. Any time I can spend with Willow feels like an important event, and tonight she’s meeting my son. But I can’t tell him, or her, how much I’ll be watching what happens. I have a vested interest in tonight.
My suspense is replaced by awe as the door swings open, revealing Willow in a stunning purple dress that accentuates her raven hair, light pink lips, and radiant smile. “Hello, Ben," she says, voice tinged with excitement. "I'm so glad you could make it." Her gaze drops to Jonny. “Oh hi! You must be Ben’s son. You look so much like him!”
“You’re the lady with the black hair!”
She blushes and extends her hand. “I guess I am.” Instantly I know she thinks I was talking about her to my son before we arrived. Incorrect assumption but better than her finding out that Shelby was badmouthing her while saying they were friends. “I’m Willow. And you are?”
“Jonny Cocker, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
“So nice to meet you, too!” Willow’s grey eyes lock onto me, expression telling me she’s completely charmed by his politeness.
Proud of him, and happy she met him with such grace, my muscles lose their tension as I step into the inviting ambiance of Sunflower. The tantalizing aroma of lasagna and warm garlic bread wafts through the air, making my stomach growl with hunger. I can't help but feel lucky to be sharing dinner with good people, rather than staying at home again. And to be looked at like Willow did when she opened the door, has my blood heated up.
Even when the group is gone, a thought I’ve given too much to, I hope we’ll be invited here with the next one. I missed having new people around. Or people at all. Not only am I glad I don’t have to just talk to Shelby, it can get too quiet at our house when it’s just us guys now. The last several months of our separation have taught me that. Jonny is like Dad, a boy of few words. He can hold a conversation, but if no one says anything then he speaks rarely, and only about what’s important to him. I can fall into that pattern, too, unless I’m interested in something. Like I am in Willow. I want to know all about her, all of her stories. The other night, I got a taste. It just made me realize how interested I am, because I want more. I’ve got so many questions but tonight, it turns out, is not my turn.
It’s my son’s.
As the dinner progresses, Jonny and Willow, instead, engage in deep conversation, effortlessly connecting on a multitude of topics, to my surprise.
He was nervous about riding a horse the first time, too, because it was so huge compared to him. “I was little then,” he says with a puffed out chest, as if big now. He’s not even a tween yet, so Mom and Sylvia stifle their smiles at his saying it.
But Dad and I have no trouble taking Jonny seriously, knowing that his ego needs confidence. That his opinion of himself matters. Plus, he is taller than most of the boys in his grade, because of my height, and he takes after me. Jonny is bright — he can see when someone is laughing at him. However, right now he’s so intent on his conversation with Willow he doesn’t notice his grandmother thinking him “So cute” or even that she whispers it to her best girlfriend.
Everyone else in the retreat group is caught up in their own discussions, outside of Laura, whose curiosity at Willow and Jonny has her the same as me, Dad, Mom and Sylvia, all ears the entire dinner singularly to their conversation. We who are interested, discover they also share the commonalty of both loving garlic bread as their favorite food, both having friends named Gemma and we get full descriptions of both, both hate mushrooms, both think mint chocolate chip is the best of all ice creams, and the finale is Willow and Jonny have in common always wanting to have a dog named Thor. Though only Willow has had a chance to make that a reality.
“You don’t have a dog?”
“No, Mom doesn’t like them. She wants cats, but I’m allergic.”
“Hmmm. Want to see a picture of Thor?”
“Yeah!”
She gracefully exits up to her room, dress flowing and beautiful in her haste. I’m staring at the stairs until she reappears with her phone. She locks eyes with me and winks, sending electric shocks into my jeans. “Are you ready to see too many pictures of a dog?”
I smirk, “What’s too many?”
“Thousands!”
“That’s not enough.”
She laughs and takes her seat, handing the phone to Jonny at my left.
“Oh, he’s cute! Can I scroll?”
“Yes, and thank you for asking.”
“Great pictures!”
She beams, “You think so?”
He swipes away, “Yeah, these look professional. Did you take these?”
“I did. Thank you!”
He starts laughing at a picture of Thor in a pink tutu, and there’s no better sound than a child laughing. “What kind of a dog is he?”
“A mutt. Some bulldog and a bunch of other stuff I don’t need to know about.”
