Page 77 of Just One More Thing

Dinner’s easier. Shrimp. Crab. Grits. Butter. Bacon. Cheese.

The kitchen fills with the smell of something that feels like home before it even hits the plate.

Hank relocates directly under my feet. “Do you have to lie right there? I’m afraid I’m gonna step on you.” He doesn’t move.

I step over him. Then over him again. And again.

When I hit six times, I’m counting out loud.

At ten minutes past seven, I hear the front door open. Hank’s head comes up first. The rest of him follows fast, sliding and scrambling on the floor as he heads for the dining room, ignoring he wasn’t invited.

I wipe my hands once. Then again and walk out like I haven’t been waiting all evening.

All day.

Mo is standing just inside the door. Navy sundress. Her water bottle in one hand. The evening light behind her. She looks around the empty restaurant, brow pulling just slightly.

“Did something happen?” she asks. “Why is it so?—“

“Empty?”

She gives a quick nod.

“I closed the restaurant.”

Her eyes come back to mine. “You closed it?”

“For tonight.”

Her gaze drifts past me to the single table set. “Jake?—“

Hank apparently couldn’t wait another second, barrels into her legs before she can finish, nearly knocking himself and her over in the process. He’s vibrating so hard his whole back half is shaking.

She crouches to hug Hank, pressing her cheek into the side of his neck. He makes a sound that is embarrassingly close to a sob.

“He was told he wasn’t invited,” I say. “He made his feelings known.”

“Don’t you listen to your dad. I’m inviting you to stay.”

Hank turns and looks at me, then juts his jaw out to show his bottom teeth. Then his tongue. That combination is often the bulldog equivalent of a middle finger.

“Okay. You can stay.”

His back end wiggles so much he can’t stay seated.

Mo straightens, and her gaze catches on the wall behind me.

The photo.

Us when we were younger. Smiling goofy smiles. My arm around her shoulders because in some way we were always touching and it was normal.

“I forgot about this one,” she says quietly. “Until I saw it again a few weeks ago.”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes come back to me, softer now.

“Come sit,” I say. “I’ll bring dinner.”