Page 28

“So, Mads, what grade are you in?”

“Seventh.”

He nods. “I don’t remember seventh grade much. You like it?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s harder than last year.”

After I make Maddie a sandwich, I slide the loaf of bread, along with turkey and cheese, across the counter to Dante so he can help himself. As he builds his sandwich, he says, “I wasalways so bad at school. Everything was hard for me. I have a reading disability, so I got pulled out of classes a lot for help. I had an IEP?—”

“My one friend has an IEP,” Maddie cuts in.

“Oh yeah? I used to feel really bad about it when I was in school ’cause I was afraid of what people would think about me, but nobody really cared.”

The way Dante so casually talks about something that shaped him as a person is both endearing and worrying. Because no one should feel bad about needing accommodations, but his voice is filled with a forced cheerfulness that I can see right through. I’d like the names of anyone who’s ever made him feel less than perfect.

Because that’s what he is.

Much to my dismay.

“So, even though school might be hard for you, it’s okay,” he continues before biting into his sandwich, speaking around a mouthful. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

Maddie nods. “My cousin, Gracie—she’s my best friend, and she’s in sixth grade—she’s so good at school, she can help me out with my work.”

Dante eats like a drunk panda bear, stuffing as much of the sandwich into his mouth as he can. I don’t know why I find it so adorable.

“Nice. It’s cool she’ll help you. You got a lot of cousins?”

“I have…” Maddie rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “Five cousins.”

“I got about that many too.” Dante laughs. “You get along with them?”

She nods. “Yeah. It’s fun. We have parties and picnics together and stuff.”

“Your family sounds awesome.”

“What’s your familylike?”

“Not as cool as yours.” He glances my way and smiles, a bite of the sandwich hanging out of his mouth.

I roll my eyes.

What a goof.

Perfect, adorable, maddening goof.

He turns back to my daughter and polishes off his sandwich. “So, what’s up? Give me the tea of seventh grade. Who’s dating who? Who’s having the parties?”

“Oh my god.” I pointedly step into his space. “You’re as bad as Clara.” Then I set my hand on Maddie’s back, reminding her, “You have lots of time for dating and parties when you’re older.”

Dante raises his fingers to the corner of his mouth, stage-whispering, “You can tell me later.”

Maddie giggles and agrees with a nod as I sigh. “Finish up, sweetie. We need to leave soon for Jake’s game.”

Dante leans back, his palms pressing into the counter, the soft cotton of his shirt clinging to the contours of his chest and stomach. As if I needed reminding of how fit he is. “What game?”

Maddie swallows her bite, eager to fill him in. “Jake’s soccer game. He’s really good.”

“Yeah?” Dante slants his curious eyes to me. “Where does he get the athletic gene from?”