Page 57 of Full Out Fiend

I park the car as instructed, then catch her hand in mine.

I smooth my thumb over her knuckles, tempted to kiss them or soothe her in some way. “There’s nothing they can say or do to change things between us, angel.”

She offers me a weak smile in return, like she doesn’t actually believe me, before opening the door and exiting the car.

“Everything is delicious, Mrs. Knowles.”

Daphne’s mom lifts her gaze and offers a poor excuse for a smile in response to my compliment.

“This is okay. But it’s not my favorite. What would your death row meal be, Fielding?”

“Tahlia!” Daphne scolds from across the table.

I fight back a chuckle. “Uh, I’m not sure what you’re asking, kiddo. What’s a death row meal?”

“You know—like if you got one last meal, what would you want to eat right before you died?” Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, and the two braids in her hair do nothing to calm the frizzy strands that have fallen out around her face.

This kid’s hilarious. I love her already.

“Okay, assuming I get an appetizer, an entrée, and dessert—”

“It’s not an Applebee’s three-course meal deal,” Tahlia snarks.

Seriously. Coolest twelve-year-old I’ve ever met.

“Hear me out,” I counter, channeling my brother and giving her a stern look. I wait for her to nod before continuing. “I’m going for three courses, but with a distinct theme. My ideal last meal would be three versions of my favorite food: waffles. I’ll start with a savory mushroom-truffle waffle covered in gravy, then go with a traditional hot chicken and waffles for my main, before ending the meal—and my life,” I add ominously, “with Belgian waffles smothered in hot fudge and whipped cream.”

Tahlia blinks twice from across the table. “Excellent answer,” she admits, nodding to herself like I just passed some imaginary test.

“If you two are done,” Mr. Knowles interjects, “maybe Fielding would like to answer some questions that actually matter.”

“Martin,” Mrs. Knowles murmurs under her breath, but the warning holds no heat. It does nothing to deter her husband from glaring at me, as if I wasn’t just knocking it out of the park with his younger daughter.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter. “Absolutely. I’m an open book. I’m happy to answer anything you’d like to know.”

“When did you and my daughter first meet?”

I freeze. Anything but that.

I have no shame about how we met and what happened that night. So many perfect, distinct memories from that night live rent free in my mind. But how exactly do I answer him without mentioning that we did, in fact, meet the night of her bachelorette party?

The question feels like a trap. It’s got to be a trap. He’s only asking it because he already knows the answer and he wants to watch me squirm.

“We met earlier this summer,” I offer, “but admittedly, didn’t keep in touch. Thankfully, we reconnected a month ago; once Daphne told me about our baby.”

The table goes silent. I have no idea if I overstepped or under-delivered. I glance to my right, side-eyeing Daphne, but she just offers me a meek smile that does little to calm my nerves.

“Can you pass the potatoes please, Mom?” she asks, breaking the tension around the table.

Her mother clucks her tongue, making a show of lifting up the serving bowl in slow motion and holding it out of arm’s reach.

“Be mindful, dear.”

The actual fuck?

I reach past Daphne, anger coiling in my veins, and grab for the bowl that’s being not quite offered.

“You’re growing a human,” I mutter, spooning a sizable portion of mashed potatoes onto Daphne’s plate. And not only that. She’s still getting sick multiple times a week, even though she’s almost into her second trimester.