Page 78 of Dial F for Finance

My mug is halfway to my mouth, but I have to put it down because I’m laughing too much.

Dominic shoots me a look of pure exasperation. “You know how many weekends I was grounded because of that?”

“Not enough,” Dustin says.

I glance around the table, at the tangle of elbows and conversation and history. Dominic’s mother sends me a wink from the sink, dabbing her hands dry with a dish towel before returning to her post at the stove. Every so often, someone drops by to refill her glass or bring her a plate, but she never sits—she just hovers at the periphery, orchestrating. I want to say something to her, to thank her for the food or the welcome, but language fails me. It’s been years since I’ve belonged at a table with this much laughter.

Before I know it, the room is clearing, the cousins have migrated to the den for Mario Kart, and Dominic is standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder. The kitchen is a riot of leftovers and Tía Marisol orchestrating the washing-up like it’s a military operation, and it’s exactly where I want to be, but there’s a look on Dominic’s face that says it’s time.

He leans close. “We should get going. Wheels up at nine.”

I nod. “Should I . . . ?” I gesture helplessly to the kitchen, to the table, to the house that’s still at full volume.

Dominic grins. “Just say goodbye to Dusty. My mom will chase you down with Tupperware before you get your coat on.” He’s not wrong. I’m barely through a hug with Dustin when his mother wraps me in a squeeze that’s half affection, half strategic immobilization.

“Come back soon,” she says, and I can tell she means it. “Next time, bring your family. We’ll have a real party.” She kisses my cheek, then, with the barest drop of voice: “He’s very in love, you know.”

I flush. Dominic looks up, sees us together, and holds my gaze for just long enough that the full, quiet weight of what she’s just said lands.

I want to protest. To play it cool, the way I always do, and roll my eyes and tell her she’s got it backward. That she’s got a son who could talk the moon out of the sky if it meant someone at this table would love him for it, and I’m just the one holding the bill. But I can’t. Because for the first time in my life, I see the way Dominic’s mother looks at me—not like a threat, or a curiosity, or even a guest, but like another one of her own grown children, temporarily home from stranger, colder places.

I feel the words that want to crawl up my throat. I’m in love with him too. But the only thing I can do is nod, and hug her back, and try not to let it show in my face as I move through the next and next goodbye.

Dusty gives me a high five and another hug, and demands a blood pact that I’ll learn Mario Kart before next time. Dominic’s father gives me a soft handshake and thanks me for out-eating most of their direct bloodline. Tía Marisol insists on swapping phone numbers and asks my opinion on rust chiffon instead of green for Luz’s wedding, because the debate continues and can’t be resolved with less than binding arbitration. I promise to weigh in.

By the time we get to the car, my chest feels too full and too hollow at the same time. Dominic drives to the airport with one hand on the wheel and one resting on my thigh, fingers interlaced with mine.

We are in the air by nine.

The jet hums through the dark, and I’m in the seat across from Dominic with my shoes off, my feet curled under me, and his jacket back around my shoulders.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

Below us, the world is black and scattered with light. Towns. Highways. Lives that look orderly from forty thousand feet because distance is a liar.

“Thanks, Dominic,” I say quietly, “for . . . all of it.” I try to play it off, but my voice is small and my throat is tight. “I know this weekend was kind of a lot.”

He tips his head back against the seat, watching me with a look that’s both content and starved. “Anytime, Pemberton. Even if you change the locks, I’ll find a way to get to you. Keys are for quitters.”

I almost smile. I want to say something light, about lockpicking or skeleton keys or the fact that he’s the only person I know who can make a threat feel like a warm blanket, but the words catch in my chest. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or the fact that I just had the closest thing to a real conversation with my mother in over a decade or that Dominic’s family took me in like I was an eccentric cousin from overseas who finally came back home, but I’m feeling everything too close to the skin.

So instead I say, “I don’t know if I love that. Or if I hate it.”

“That I don’t quit?”

I nod, and he watches me a moment.

“Can I ask you something?” He puts his phone down and gives me his full attention.

“You can ask anything,” I say. “But I can’t guarantee you I’ll answer.”

He smirks. “Classic Pemberton.”

“What do you want to know?”

“That paperwork you had drawn up—why are you claiming you weren’t in your right mind?”

My stomach tightens.