Page 70 of Jesse

“Two months.” Her mother sighs. “You should be here every weekend for Saturday dinner like your brothers. Look at their busy lives. And they still manage to come over for Saturday dinner.”

“You guys all live on the same street.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m in the city. Three hours away by jet. I think my point was pretty obvious.”

Her mother looks at me. “Saturday dinners have always been sacred in our house.”

I nod at her. “Sure. Yeah. I think everyone should have Saturday dinners.”

“Oh?” her mother says. “Does your family do Saturday dinner? Or Sunday dinner?”

“We don’t do dinner.”

Her mother, for serious, gets this really confused look on her face.

“You know… well. My mother… disappeared when I was a kid and my father did his best, but… yeah. We don't do dinner.”

Emma’s doing that little slicing-her-throat motion again. But her mother says, “I’m sorry, did you say your mother disappeared? Who took care of you?”

“Oh, mostly my older brother, Johnny.”

“Well, we’ve had a nice chat,” Emma says, interrupting. “But we’ve got plans today on the water. So we gotta get going.”

But her mother isn’t done yet, because she says, “Would you like to come for Saturday dinners, Mr. Boston?”

I brighten. “Uh… OK. Sure. Yeah. Actually that sounds fun.”

“No,” Emma says. “We’re not even dating, Mom. He’s just… ya know. A thing.”

Emma’s mom side-eyes her for a moment, frowning. Then looks at me again. “Does she always boss you like that?”

“Mom,” Emma starts.

But good ol’ Mom puts up a hand and continues. “She’s always been so sassy. Don’t let her scare you away with her sass.”

I glance at Emma and beam her a smile. “I kinda like her sass.”

Emma’s face goes a little Bright Berry Beach Pink as she shrugs. “What can I say? I’m sassy.”

“She’s bossy too,” her mom continues.

“Really?” I ask. “I hadn’t noticed.” Emma shakes her head.

“Yes,” her mother says. She’s just not letting this go. “She’s very bossy, Mr. Boston.” Then she hesitates and laughs. “Oh, that’s cute.”

“What’s cute?” Emma asks.

“Mr. Boston?” her mother says. “Sounds a lot like Mr. Bossy to me. Maybe you’ve finally met your match, Emma?”

I glance at Emma and take her in. All the ways I’ve seen her over the past twenty-four hours or so. All the ways I remember her back when we were here, on this island together. She is quite something. She was always quite something.

“It’s a pretty even match,” I say. “In fact, the very first time we met she was working the shaved ice stand in Mallory Square and she bossed me into buying a souvenir cup.”

Emma stares at me for a moment. That perfect pout of a mouth—the one that always looks like someone is perpetually disappointing her—lifts up just the slightest bit. She says, “How do you remember that?”

“I told you. You made quite the impression on me.” We lock eyes for a moment. In fact, we have a moment. One of those memorable moments. One I might want to think about forever. One that might just change my life.