“So,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me about Dave.”
It was after the game, and we were in the private back room of a local restaurant where she and Peter had made a reservation for dinner. It was called Boeuf, and was a big, incredibly dark place with heavy velvet drapes and a roaring, stone fireplace. The walls were lined with various implements of destruction: shiny scythes, swords of varying sizes, even what looked like a small battering ram. It made me uneasy, as if we might find ourselves under attack at any moment and have to seize the décor to defend ourselves.
“We’re neighbors,” I told my mom as the waiter slid thick, leather-bound menus in front of us. Dave, who had been invited to come along, had gone to the restroom; Peter was on his cell phone, fielding calls. The twins were at the other end of the table, strapped into matching high chairs and giggling as their sitters fed them, not that I could really see them that well. It was so dark, it was like the restaurant wasn’t going for ambiance as much as blackout conditions.
“Just neighbors?” she asked.
Her continued emphasis of particular words was beyond annoying, but I bit my tongue. I’d decided early on inthe first half, when she still hadn’t let go of my hand and kept peppering me with questions about everything from school to my friends, rapid-fire style, to just endure as best I could. The only other option was to snap at her, and considering we were two rows behind Peter and his assistant coaches and thus squarely on the live TV feed, any tension would be broadcast to sports fans across the country. All of this had already been public enough. It would not kill me to keep up a calm face for two hours. I hoped.
I might have forgotten about the TV thing if not for the fact that Dave’s phone was buzzing about every ten seconds as his friends spotted him on the screen. Not that he noticed, as he was completely absorbed in the game, which he was watching with his mouth half open, still in awe about his incredible vantage point.
As he watched, his eyes still glued to the action, I glanced down at his phone’s screen. WHAT THE HELL! said the first message listed, from Ellis, followed by DUDE! and a few others in the same vein from names I didn’t recognize. Then, with another buzz, one more came in. YOU CHARMER. It was from Riley.
“Your phone is ringing,” I pointed out to him.
He glanced at me, then at it, before quickly turning back to the court. “It can wait,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
“I’m watching it,” I said. “It’s a good game.”
“It’s an amazing game from, like, the best freaking vantage point ever,” he corrected me. “I can’t believe you’re basketball royalty and were so secretive about it.”
“I’m not basketball royalty,” I said. “And what is that, exactly?”
“Peter Hamilton is your stepfather.”
“Stepfather,” I repeated, a bit louder than I probably should have. I cleared my throat. “Stepfather,” I said again.
This got his attention. He looked at me, then down at my mom and the twins. “Right,” he said slowly. Then he gave me a look that made me feel sort of weird, vulnerable. Like I’d said more than I had. “Well, thanks for the invite. Seriously.”
“You’re welcome.” He was still looking at me, though, so I pointed at the court. “Hello? I can’t believe you’re not watching this.”
Dave smiled, then turned back to the game, just as his phone buzzed again. This time, I didn’t look at it, instead focusing on the players running past in a blur, the ball whizzing between them.
Now, at Boeuf, I told myself to be patient. I showed up with a boy—of course my mother would make assumptions. “Just neighbors,” I told her. “He lives next door.”
“He seems very nice,” she said. “Smart, too.”
“He only said, like, two words to you,” I pointed out, just as one of the twins let loose with a holler, protesting something.
“What?” she said, leaning in closer and cupping her ear.
“Nothing.”
Dave was now returning to the table, where he promptly crashed into the back of my chair, knocking me sideways. “Sorry,” he said as he groped for his chair and sat down“It’s just so freaking dark in here. I walked into another room and joined some other table.”
“Whoops.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t think they could see me, though.” He picked up the menu, and my mom, watching him, smiled at me as if I had in fact admitted something to her in his absence. To her he said, “Thanks again for the ticket. The game was incredible.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” she replied. She looked at Peter, who was still talking, his phone pressed to his ear, then said to me, “He should be done with all this press in a second. Then you can tell us everything that’s going on with you.”