“So.”
I run my hand through my styled hair, frustrated at myself. “I can’t tuck my shirt in if I don’t have a belt on, because that’s sloppy.”
She chuckles and stands on her toes to kiss me on my chin. “You’re being ridiculous. Come on.”
Amelia walks into her childhood home and pulls me in with her. Feeling unprepared, I put on a smile and try to channel every gesture of good manners I’ve ever learned.
“Is that my Bedelia?” a voice calls out right before an older-looking man comes around the corner of the entryway.
Marvin Santos is older than I expected him to be, much older. Amelia told me her parents had her later in their lives, but I’m kind of shocked actually. He almost looks like he could be a grandpa.
Fuck, don’t think things like that because you might say them out loud.
“Daddy, it’s good to see you.” Amelia springs forward, letting go of my hand and wrapping her arms around her dad’s waist. The pure joy they share in seeing each other is something I’ve never experienced. I love my mom, I truly do, but I don’t think I’ve ever been that excited to see her, nor has she been that excited to see me.
My gut churns, but this time for a different reason.
Shit, focus on impressing the man in front of you.
When Mr. Santos lifts from kissing Amelia on the head, he eyes me up and down. “Is this the boy you’ve spoken of?”
Amelia turns toward me, one of her arms still wrapped around his waist, as if they’re both sizing me up. “This is him, Daddy. Meet Aaron Walters.”
“Walters, huh?” He scans me again. “Could have at least tucked your shirt in, boy.”
Immediately I feel my face turn bright red. Fuck, now I’m sweating more. I’m tongue-tied, unsure of what to say. I fucking knew I should have tucked my shirt in.
Noticing my panic, Mr. Santos throws his head back and laughs and then clasps his hand on my shoulder. “I’m joking with you, son. I heard you outside asking about your shirt, thought I would give you some old-fashioned teasing.”
“Oh . . . good one, sir.” I stumble over my words. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man and yet, I can’t seem to pull it together to impress someone I need to impress. I’m acting like a fucking teenager.
“Sir. Oh, I like the sound of that.” Mr. Santos continues to chuckle as he ushers us into the kitchen where dinner is on the stove and the table is set. “You taught him well, Amelia.”
“That was all him,” she replies while giving me a wink and heading to the stove to check out what’s on the menu.
While they fight over how much salt to put in whatever is cooking, I observe the house Amelia grew up in. It’s a modest Cape Cod house with an open kitchen and dining space, painted in neutral colors and full of love. Pictures of Amelia and her sister grace the walls, tabletops, and the refrigerator. Even though the furniture in the house is worn, and the carpet has seen better days, it’s a palace compared to what I grew up in. There are no cracks in the ceiling or on the walls; there are no screaming neighbors, and no piles of trash in the front yard. And to top it all off, there are stairs.
I walk over to them and run my hand along the banister, envisioning the pictures Amelia must have taken, the fun she must have had chasing her sister up and down them, the pure joy she must have had while racing down her stairs on Christmas morning to gifts stuffed under the tree. She’s lucky, and for the first time in my life, I’m not jealous. I’m happy for her because my girl deserves the best, and I’m glad she grew up with the best, with parents who care for her deeply.
“Did we scare you away already?” Mr. Santos asks, peeking his head into the living room where I stand.
I clear my throat and shake my head. “Not at all, sir. Just admiring your home. Amelia is very lucky to have grown up in such a beautiful environment.”
It’s a weird thing to say and I can see Mr. Santos processing the way I phrased my praise, but being the good man he is, he doesn’t question me, instead he asks, “Can I get you a drink?”
“I would love a water, sir.”
“Then come on in the kitchen. Dinner is almost ready.”
I follow him in and see Amelia wearing an apron and pouring what looks like stew into three small bowls. There is cornbread on the table cut into little squares and piled on top of each other. My mouth waters instantly. I can’t remember the last time I had a real home-cooked meal. Probably at one of my friend’s houses.
“Smells amazing. Where can I wash up?” I hold my hands out.
“Kitchen sink is just fine. Towel is on the stove.”
I maneuver around Amelia who lovingly bumps me just before she starts taking bowls to the dining room table. God, she’s so adorable with her beaming smile and bubbly nature, and it’s infectious.
I quickly wash and join Mr. Santos and Amelia at the table where they’re waiting for me. Thankfully Amelia has placed my bowl on the place setting next to hers so I don’t have to feel awkward about where to sit.
Mr. Santos reaches for a piece of cornbread and starts buttering the top. “So Aaron, my little Bedelia here told me you came to her rescue one day during a Buffalo chicken pizza craving.”
Chuckling, I glance at Amelia who’s smiling brightly. “That I did, sir. She was desperate, flailing her body on the ground actually, begging for an IV of the pizza to be hooked up to her.”
“I was not.” She nudges me with her elbow.
“Oh sorry, that’s right, you weren’t flailing, you were flailing and crying.”
Mr. Santos chuckles and points his spoon at me. “I like this guy already.”
And just like that, I feel at ease.
We spend the rest of dinner talking about Amelia growing up, the kind of hellion she was, and how she became the woman she is today. Mr. Santos beams as he speaks of his daughters, his wife, the family he was blessed with, and I can’t help but be caught up in the world he lives in. I want this. I want this for my future. With Amelia.
Once the table is cleared, the kitchen is cleaned by yours truly—brownie points there—we hang out in the screened-in back porch with only a few lit candles to illuminate the space. I sit down on a love seat first only to have Amelia snuggle up next to me with her head on my chest.
A little uncomfortable with public displays of affection, especially in front of her dad, I stiffen, but when Mr. Santos joins us and sees Amelia pressed against me, he warmly smiles and sips his coffee in the chair across from us, which gives me the go-ahead to put my arm around her. I do refrain from running my fingers through her hair like I normally would.
“Tell me, Aaron, what do you do? Are you in school?”