“Sure,” I said, happy to be able to concentrate on frying my chicken. Ryan left the room, cellphone in hand, scrolling through his texts as he walked. I had the fleeting, unsettling thought that he might be scrolling through texts from girls, but I told myself not to be paranoid as I transferred the vegetables into a casserole dish, alternating layers of the mixture with grated cheese, then finished with a topping of crushed chips. I slid the whole dish into the preheated oven, glancing at the kitchen clock, then set the table with china, crystal, and real silver.
About thirty minutes later, just as I was putting the casserole on the table, Ryan reappeared in what could only be described as loungewear. The matching set was heather gray and the drawstring pants so beautifully cut that they looked custom-made. I gave him a quick once-over, smirked, and said, “That’s a pretty sweet getup you got there.”
“Getup?” He laughed as I walked over to him and ran my hand down one ultrasoft sleeve, resting for a moment on his shoulder.
“Designer cashmere sweats?” I teased.
“Cashmere-cotton blend,” he said, smirking. “With maybe a hint of Lycra. Wears better than straight cashmere.”
It sounded exactly like something Lucy would say; in fact, I was pretty sure she had uttered the exact words to me before. I shook my head and said I’d keep that in mind, although I could count on one hand the number of garments in my closet that contained any cashmere.
“So are you ready to eat?” I asked, gesturing toward the banquette at the other end of his kitchen, where I had set the table. I had the feeling that we were playing house as he told me how wonderful everything looked and smelled.
“Let’s hope it tastes good, too,” I said.
“I know it will,” he said, then stopped me on the way to our table and grabbed my hands. “Shea?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking up into his face. His expression was earnest and loving.
“I just … wanted to thank you,” he said after a thoughtful beat.
“For what?” I said.
“For making me dinner.” Still holding both my hands, he looked in my eyes and said, “This was really sweet of you. I appreciate it. A lot.”
I found his gratitude touching, especially considering that he had gourmet dinners prepared for him pretty much every night of the week except for the days he had a four-star training table awaiting him.
“You’re welcome,” I said, overcome with a feeling of true affection. Perhaps the strongest I’d ever felt for him.
As we sat down to the table, the satisfied feeling lingered, and expanded until I realized what it was. I was happy. Really in-the-moment happy, which has always seemed a completely different animal than retrospectively recognizing that you had been happy, the usual case with me. I could tell Ryan was conscious of the mood, too, because he kept smiling at me, and touching my arm as we talked. Our conversation wasn’t particularly deep, but it was easy and intimate, and, every few moments he’d sprinkle in a compliment on my dinner. I could hear my mother—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach—and felt proud in spite of myself, knowing that I had definitely nailed my first meal. Ryan heaped seconds of casserole onto his plate, calling it “simple yet soulful,” while I drank most of our bottle of wine by myself. By the time we finished, I had a strong buzz.
“So,” he said, after he cleared our plates and settled back into his seat. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Same thing you’re doing,” I said, thinking that I didn’t measure the end of the year the way other people did—in terms of holidays. Instead I thought of it as rivalry weekend versus Texas, followed by bowl season.
“You’re playing football?” he asked, smiling, stroking my arm again.
“Ha. No. I’m watching you play on television,” I said, thinking that I couldn’t remember a Thanksgiving that didn’t include the Cowboys. “With my dad. He’s coming down with Bronwyn and Astrid.” I rolled my eyes, then made a face. I hadn’t told Ryan much about my father, other than the basic but bizarre chronology of his three marriages to two women—and a little about my smug half sister. How condescending she was about all things Texas, calling everything “quaint” or “rustic” and buying cowboy boots as if they were exotic souvenirs from a foreign country.
“Well. Would y’all like to watch the game in person? Instead of on television?” he said. “In a suite with my parents? You could invite your mom, too …”
“That’d be great,” I said, as the full weight of the invite sunk in. Not only was he asking to meet my parents, but he was introducing me to his, and our parents to one another. After a short pause, my voice turned coy. “So you want me to meet your parents, do you?”