Page 37 of Hate You, Maybe

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dex

I come into my parents’ kitchen and move straight to the stove, where my mother’s stirring a pot of homemade minestrone. “There he is,” she exclaims. “My favorite son in the whole world!”

“Hey, Mom.” I drop a kiss on top of her head. My dad’s at the island chopping veggies for a salad. Cubes of peppers, tomatoes, cucumber, and mushrooms are piled on a cutting board next to the salad bowl.

“Well, don’t get too full of yourself,” he teases. “Because you’re not just her favorite son. You’re also—”

“Her only son,” I crack. “I know. Funny how that joke never gets old.”

“Kind of like me,” he says.

I wander over to him, pat him on the back. “How are you feeling, Pop?”

He waves the question away, his knife slicing the air. “I wish everyone would stop hovering.”

“Well, I wish someone had called me when you went to the ER. Instead, I had to hear about your little trip from Jo.”

“There was nothing to report.” My dad grunts. “Your mother overreacted. I was fine.”

Fine. Right. I’ve heard that one before. To reorient, I glance around the kitchen, taking comfort in the familiar. Same old white appliances. Wallpaper dotted with sunflowers. The sign over the table in the nook.

Happiness is a Choice.

“I saw all the cars out front,” I say. “But where are all the people?”

We usually do family dinners on Mondays, but this week my mom insisted on pushing to Thursday since I was away at the retreat. Everyone grumbled about the switch in the group chat. But it looks like they showed up anyway.

That’s the way of things with us Michaels.

“Kendal’s feeding the baby in the den.” My mom sets her ladle on a spoon rest and wipes her hands down her apron. “Tim took Rowan out back with Landry and Brock to watch the sunset.”

“It was a good one tonight,” I say. “Very pink.”

She nods at my dad. “Your father took a picture and posted it on his new Instagram page.”

“Your mother claims it’s never too late to become an influencer,” he says.

“Nice.” I chuckle. “Sunsets are a great start.”

To be fair, the views from the yard are pretty magnificent and probably worth renting out for special events. Not that my parents would ever do that. This place was always for us.

The five-bedroom rancher sits on top of a hill at the edge of a cul-de-sac in one of Harvest Hollow’s older neighborhoods.

A lot of the original owners have been replaced by younger families, so there are still kids everywhere.

On their bikes in the street. Running around until the street lights come on. Same as when we moved in.

That was always the signal that we had to come in and wash up. Whatever we were playing, whoever we were with, we came home when we were expected.

We still do.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask.

My dad points his knife at a basket by the pantry. “Take the bread to the dining room.” The rolls are crusty on the outside. Soft inside.

Kind of like he is.

The big table is already set for eight with a highchair at one end for Rowan.

My mom’s working her usual fall theme with a horn of plenty centerpiece flanked by taper candles that look like ears of corn.

The salt and pepper shakers are shaped like pumpkins.

The napkins are printed with fall leaves.

Even the water glasses are a sheer orange.

It’s an autumnal extravaganza.

Over dinner, I fill everyone in on my time at Camp Reboot, skipping over any parts that involve me Velcro-ed to Sayla Kroft’s lips. Then I tell them about our new plan for the SACSS evaluation.

“So you’re the performing arts director now?” My dad squints at me from the head of the table. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just a temporary role switch until the visitation,” I explain. “The whole point is to show the accreditation team how collaborative our faculty can be.”

“So basically it’s a stunt,” Landry smirks.

“Pretty much.” I grab a roll from the basket and smear butter across the top.

“But it’s a stunt that forces different departments to work together, which is the whole point.

I have no idea how to teach football players to perform Shakespeare, so the theater teacher will help me.

And vice versa, with Sayla coaching her actors in a scrimmage.

We’ll be showing the SACSS a literal demonstration of what the previous committee asked to see more of at Stony Peak. ”

“Who’s Sayla?” Kendal asks.

“The theater teacher,” Jojo pipes up before I can. “Ms. Kroft.”

“Oooh, I like her plays,” my mother chimes in. Then she forces the salad bowl on my dad. “Here. Eat some greens.”

He frowns, but he takes a serving anyway. “Sayla Kroft. How come I know that name? Isn’t she the one going after the same grant money you are?”

I nod, shoving the rest of the roll in my face to avoid talking while I chew.

I haven’t quite figured out how to tell my family I surrendered the FRIG to her department.

Not that they don’t appreciate the performing arts.

We attended all the school’s plays when I was a kid, just like the football games.

But I’ve always been competitive, so they wouldn’t understand my sudden change of heart.

And I doubt I could explain things to them without everyone hearing in my voice how much I care about Sayla.

And that would make my feelings for her real.

“Well, I think Sayla’s great,” Jo says, before slurping a big spoonful of soup.

“When did you meet her?” Landry looks skeptical, as usual. “Are you holding out on us, Jo?”

“She was in the car with Dex when I called him Monday. She was giving him a hard time right along with me. It was kind of hilarious.”

“Uh-oh.” Kendal shakes her head, a playful smile on her lips. “That sounds potentially hazardous.”

I gulp down the bread stuck in my dry, dry throat. “Hazardous?” I choke. “Why?”

“Because there’s nothing you find more attractive than a snarky woman,” Kendal says.

Landry guffaws. “Present company excluded.”

“Yeah, no.” I grimace. “I do not find my snarky sisters attractive.”

“But is this Sayla person attractive?” my dad asks, wagging his brows.

“Lewis.” My mom kicks him under the table.

“You remember her, Dad,” Jo chimes in. “She’s the one who directed the musical last spring.”

“Oh, that one?” He lets out a whistle. “Yep. She’s attractive all right.”

My mom swats him with her napkin. “Lewis!”

“Aww.” My dad leans over and plants a noisy smooch on her cheek. “Don’t be jealous, Margaret. You know you’re the only woman for me.”

“That’s sweet, Dad.” Kendal laughs. “But Dex is a free agent.”

“Hey.” Landry shoots me a look across the table. “Just be careful.”

“About what?” I take a long drink of water, suddenly parched here under the microscope.

“Some women can be manipulative when they want something.” She lifts a brow, surveying the table. “Again. Present company excluded.”

“People in general can be manipulative,” I protest. “But Sayla’s not one of them.

She really opened up at this retreat. The whole point of our time there was to get real and honest. And we …

” I cut myself off, when I notice everyone at the table staring at me.

Except maybe Rowan. She’s stuffing a minestrone noodle in her mouth.

“Dude.” Tim smirks.

“What?”

Brock grunts. “You’re already so into her, man.”

“Nah.” I set down my glass. “I’ve got a handle on it.”

“Dex is in loooove,” Jo coos.

I roll my eyes. “What are you, eight years old?”

“I’m two!” Rowan crows.

Thank you, niece. For taking the focus off of me.

“If you’ve really got a handle on it,” Landry says, “then why did you go all soft and gooey just now, talking about Sayla?”

Great. Guess I’m not out of the hot seat yet.

“Landry’s right,” Kendal pipes up. “You should see your face.”

I blow out a breath, aiming for amused, but landing somewhere east of awkward. “For the record, I’m not soft.”

“Maybe.” Kendal smiles at me primly. “But you are the gooiest.”

“Totally,” Landry quips. “Goo central.”

“Wow.” I tug at my collar. “Remind me why I agreed to come to dinner tonight?”

“Because you couldn’t come on Monday,” Jojo points out.

“And your father was in the ER Sunday,” my mother adds.

“You overreacted,” he grumbles, and she reaches for his hand. The adults fall quiet for a moment, probably all thinking the same thing: That there’s no right amount of reaction when it comes to the ones we love. And we got lucky this time with Dad.

We haven’t always been so lucky.

“PIE!” Rowan suddenly hollers, breaking the silence.

“Rowie, hush,” Kendal begs.

“On that note,” I rise from my chair, “I’ll clear the plates and get dessert.”

“We put it in the garage fridge,” Landry says. “Pecan praline ice cream and apple pie.”

“PIE!” Rowan shouts again at the top of her lungs.

“Talk about a manipulative woman,” Brock chuckles.

“My daughter sure told you,” Tim quips.

“As she should.” I wink at my niece. “What the lady wants, the lady gets.”