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“Yeah, but…never mind.”
“No. Say it.”
Mom quietly scoots out of the living room to give us a moment alone, and I force a laugh. “You don’t need to make the scary face. I just don’t expect anyone to go out of their way for me. It’s my choice to be vegetarian, so I’m always prepared to do my own thing.”
“Well, your thing is now my thing.” He sticks out his arm, the bag swaying with the motion, as he points toward the dining room table. “You want to get the plates, or should I find them myself?”
I hear Mom snicker before she says, “I got the plates,” and begins to set them on the table. When I call up to Noah, he races down the hall, feet stomping. “Is he here yet?” Then he stampedes down the steps. “Is Austin here?” Only to come to a sudden stop like a cartoon when he spies his idol in his house. “You’re here! Austin is here!”
“Yeah.” Austin actually lets loose a gruff laugh. “I’m here.”
“You wanna see my room?”
“How about we eat first?”
“Oh yeah, okay. And then I’ll show you my room.”
Austin flicks his eyes to me, for permission, and I nod in appreciation of his thoughtfulness. “Sure, kid.” He sets down the big bag of food and begins to retrieve the containers of tacos: beef, barbacoa, carnitas, sweet potato, and cauliflower—just like he said—along with all the fixings, including chips and guacamole. “A couple of the guys on the team said they love this place. Run by a Mexican family.” He pushes the vegetarian containers my way. “So it should be good.”
“You brought too much. There’s no way we’ll be able to eat all this.”
He shrugs. “Eat them for leftovers.”
“Very kind,” Mom says, then folds her hands. “Say grace, Noah.”
We make the sign of the cross as Austin’s eyes dart around before he follows and bows his head, and I hide my smile behind my fingers when Noah recites the prayer. He finishes and launches himself toward the beef tacos, putting three on his plate along with salsa, guacamole, and chips. “It’s so cool you’re here,” he says around a big bite. “My friends were so jealous when I told them you were coming over.”
By now, I’ve noticed that when Austin doesn’t know what to say, he rubs his index finger over his lips, like he does now, then helps himself to two barbacoa tacos.
Mom lifts her hands. “Need drinks. What would everyone like?”
“You don’t need to get up again.” Austin stays her with his hand and stands.
Since I’m on the opposite end of the table, I point to the kitchen. “Grab whatever from the fridge.”
Austin disappears for a minute and returns with cans of Diet Coke, a jug of orange juice, sports drinks, and a filtered water pitcher, along with four cups. I’m tempted to take a picture and post it on his social media. Proof that the bad-tempered bad boy has the manners of a Southern gentleman and gladly fills his burly arms with beverages of every kind, before sweetly offering to pour some water for my mother.
“Thank you for having me over,” he says after he’s seated again.
“Thank you for bringing us dinner.” Mom nibbles on a tortilla chip. She doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore, so I’d be happy if she ate one whole taco. “I don’t do a lot of cooking anymore,” she goes on, then points to me. “So it’s all left to Millie.”
Noah makes a face, and I elbow him with a laugh. He thinks I’m a terrible cook, but I do follow the recipes. I don’t know where it all goes wrong!
“Austin liked the spaghetti I made for him,” I say to no one in particular, but my son’s and mother’s eyes shoot to him for verification.
Austin doesn’t answer. Merely shoves half a taco in his mouth. Which is answer enough.
I flop my fists on the table. “What was wrong with it?”
He chews carefully, swallows, licks his lips, swipes a napkin over his mouth, then finally—finally—raises his dual-colored eyes to mine. “Nothing. It was perfect.”
Mom snorts as Noah mumbles “Liar” under his breath, but Austin changes the subject to Noah’s baseball team, which takes up the rest of dinner. As soon as Austin finishes the last of his food, Noah’s out of his seat, urging my boss upstairs to see his room.
But instead of following my son, he tells him, “Let’s clean up first.”
He collects all the dishes and hands them to Noah to take care of then packs up the leftovers and pops into the kitchen, presumably to put them in the refrigerator. Mom and I can hear them both shuffling around, and her eyes widen when he gives Noah some advice. “Your mom is always taking care of everybody, you and your grandma. She works hard. She makes sure you get to all your games and practices, and I know you’re a good kid. I know you appreciate her, but it would be nice to show her in little ways, like this, cleaning up after dinner. Taking the trash out. Making sure you pick up after yourself. And do it before she has to ask, because even though it might not seem like a big deal to you, it is to her.”
Mom places her hand on her heart as if it’s the best thing she’s ever heard, and I dip my chin toward my chest, skin warming while breaking out in goose bumps at the idea of this man giving my son advice. Noah’s never had a father figure in his life, even if he’s surrounded by men at baseball and he has the men in my family. But there are some things that sound different coming from someone else’s mouth than mine. I’m his mom, and he’s used to me nagging him about picking up after himself. But Austin Ashwood telling him?
