Page 77 of Dial F for Finance

Dominic knows both. He stands with me in the quiet, facing out at the yard while his entire family moves around us in fragments—a long table, plates everywhere, two kids on the lawn fighting with empty soda bottles like swords, his brother sitting on the porch steps in his bowtie, studying the sunset.

“We don’t have to go back in if you don’t want to,” he says. “I’ll handle the cover story. Medical emergency. Unexpected plot twist. You name it.”

I laugh. “I’m not afraid of your family, Dominic.”

His chin drops against my head. “It’s not about you being afraid. I just . . . This is a lot. For anyone. You should be able to breathe if you want to.”

I listen to the thrum inside me, the old instinct that says you’re making a scene, get it together, put your mask back on. And the new feeling, the one that says you can keep breathing here, you belong.

Turning in his arms, I lift up on my toes and brush my lips against his. “I want to go back inside.”

We walk back in together. His hand is on my lower back and I let it stay there. Inside, the tempo of the house has shifted. A new tablecloth has appeared, and the population density has overtaken the furniture. My seat’s still vacant, but now there’s a steaming mug at my place, dark liquid filled to the rim. Dominic steers me toward it, but Dustin intercepts, dropping into the next chair like a satellite dropping into orbit. He’s beaming.

“Hey, Jenny,” he says. “I brought you something special.”

I eye the mug. “What is it?”

“Mud water,” he says with pride. “Best in town.”

“Real mud?”

“For you, Jenny, only the highest grade.” He leans in, confidential. “Don’t tell the others, but it’s from the river.” He waggles his eyebrows at Dominic, who doesn’t look impressed.

“Dusty,” he warns.

Dustin grins wider, the tips of his ears turning danger red. “I’m just kidding. It’s coffee! I have Down syndrome, I’m not crazy enough to serve you real mud.” He snorts, more pleased with his own joke than anyone else. Then he hitches a thumb at Dominic. “He’s so overprotective.”

Dominic rubs his forehead, muttering, “And you’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dustin retorts.

I risk taking a sip of the jet-black liquid. It tastes bitter enough to sand drywall. “Perfection.”

I cough. Dominic pats my back.

“Coffee does taste like mud water, though, don’t you think?” Dustin says, watching me. “I wasn’t even making that part up. Tea tastes like grass. Why do people drink it? Soda is way better.”

Dominic takes my coffee away and replaces it with a mug of peppermint chamomile tea sweetened with honey. I sip it gratefully because I’ll never sleep tonight if I drink any more of that coffee.

At the same time, Dustin regales me with another story about Dominic, this one involving a field trip gone so badly wrong the school district needed to call an emergency meeting to rewrite the school’s allergy risk protocols. Only one thing was clear: Dominic was at the center.

“Did he ever tell you about the peanut butter incident?” Dustin asks, wide-eyed with scandal and anticipation.

“I have not.” Dominic groans.

“Oh, this is good.” Dustin launches in. “Fourth grade. Nicky’s at lunch⁠—”

“I was ten, Dusty. Stop calling it fourth grade.”

“—and he’s holding court, like always. This new kid comes in, and he’s got a peanut allergy so bad his mom sends a laminated card with him everywhere.”

“Lanyard,” Dominic corrects. “It was a lanyard.”

“Right, well, the lunch lady had some kind of crisis on her hands—meatloaf didn’t have enough sawdust or something,” Dustin continues, undeterred, “and the new kid gets given the peanut-butter-and-jelly special. He tells them he can’t have it, but they ignore him, because kids never tell the truth or whatever.”

Dominic puts his head in his hands.

“So, anyway. Dominic, being, like, the world’s first hostile negotiator, stands up on the bench and yells, ‘Nobody eat the peanut butter!’ He throws all the sandwiches in the trash. The other kids don’t mind, because the sandwiches are disgusting. But the principal loses it.” Dustin pauses, eyes shining. “They wanted to suspend him for destroying thirty sandwiches. But then they let him off because he made it a safety issue and got a bunch of signatures on a petition. Whole cafeteria cheered. He came home and made me sign the petition too, as, like, the ‘witness.’” He rocks back, satisfied. “Nicky: always the hero and the asshole, all at once.”