Page 80 of Playing the Backbeat

Oh my god. I’m sweating.

She watches me, confusion written clear as day on her face. I swipe at my forehead and kick my feet back and forth. “We basically thrive off giving each other a hard time.” I manage a small laugh. “One day I said I had a cat…and I’ve kept up the ruse ever since.”

She positively beams at me. “Oh my god, that’ssofun.”

“It is?” Relief pours over me. My shoulders must drop a foot.

“Yes,” she screeches. She tiptoes over to me, looking behind me, presumably to make sure the coast is clear. “I convinced Walter that I was allergic to green peppers when we started dating. It was an accident, really.” She waves her hand in front of her face. “I was trying to explain that I don’t like peppers, and he somehow got the message mixed up. I joined him and his parents for dinner, but before I arrived, he told everyone I wasseverely allergic to peppers. He made me an entirely separate meal and washed every dish meticulously to avoid any cross-contamination.

“I didn’t realize, and I guess he did this for the first three years of our relationship, until I finally tried a pepper again, only to realize I really enjoy them. He watched me in horror, slapping the fork out of my hand, only for us to discover the misunderstanding.”

We laugh, and I find myself loving Katherine more with every minute. She’s kind and welcoming, clearly has a good sense of humor, and loves her son unconditionally. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it sounds like she and Walter clearly had a misunderstanding, while I’m intentionally fucking with her son’s mind every chance I get, but I decide that’s not an important detail to harp on.

“Anyway.” She sighs, wiping the tears from her eyes at the fond memory. “Your secret is safe with me.”

We talk for a while and she asks about my family and friends. She’s already in love with Nana and Emi after I share a few stories. Understandable. She asks about my book club—Dylan must have mentioned something—and I’m a little…okay, I’m very vague with the details.

“What kind of trouble are you two getting up to in here?” Dylan asks, placing his hands on my shoulders, standing comfortably at my back as I sit at the kitchen island.

“Eh.” I shrug. “I’m deciding how best to propose to you. I need to keep you close if I want to eat this well again.”

He laughs and squeezes my shoulders once before perching on the stool next to me, his body angled toward me.

He drops his voice low. “I’m good for more than food, you know?”

“I don’t know. I have a big appetite.”

He fights a smile and returns his focus to his parents. His father, Walter, jumped in to help Katherine, packing up two huge pieces of pie while they bicker about which Tupperware to use.

No way that’s making it until tomorrow. I’m eating the pie and potatoes as soon as we get home. I don’t care if it hurts…they werethatgood.

“Here’s that Fancy Feast I told you about, Dee,” Katherine says, winking discreetly before placing that in the bag as well.

“Thank you both for coming,” Walter says. “We’ll make the drive to you next time. We’ve been wanting to catch another show at the Bridge.”

“I’ll send you the concert schedule,” Dylan says easily, though I feel his frame tense. I wonder if he’s thinking he may not be working there long enough for them to make it out to see another show.

I thank them before getting caught up in some kind of pileup family hug between Dylan and Katherine as Walter crowds in from the opposite side.

“Love you. Merry Christmas,” Dylan yells as we walk down the driveway, leaving them to watch from the doorway, Katherine tucked into Walter’s side.

Dylan backs out of the driveway, his arm behind my headrest as he watches the street for an opening. My lap warms from the leftovers piled high in the bag. I cling to the sides—precious cargo and all.

“Your parents are supersweet,” I muse.

“And you’ve already won them over.”

“Of course. I’m very lovable.”

His hand finds my thigh and he squeezes, sending a shocking pulse of electricity through me.

Okay. The plan is sexthenpie.

I can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve.

We ride in comfortable silence before he sighs softly, as if weeks of tension were leaving his body.

“Was it as hard as you thought?” I ask, not wanting to push, but also wanting to give him the space to talk about it. “When your family brought up the Bridge?”