We laugh as we unbuckle our seat belts, then head inside.
No sooner have I crossed over the threshold than a blur of fur and slobber comes slamming into me, almost knocking my feet out from under me. A single paw finds my shoulder, and suddenly the droopy brown eyes of a golden retriever are staring lovingly into mine as my face is coated in sloppy dog kisses.
I laugh, patting the dog’s sides, and realize with a start that he only has three legs. The smooth skin of his chest extends all the way around on his left side, a tiny nub the only sign anything had ever been there.
“Winston,” Blake commands, and Winston immediately stops car washing my face, dropping down onto all threes and sitting with a loud, obedient thump.
He stares up at Blake, his tail keeping time on the chilly concrete floor. She stares back at him, her face serious for a few seconds before cracking into a big smile. Winston immediately launches himself at her in a similar greeting.
We follow the smell of pizza up a set of metal stairs. Framed house blueprints Blake’s grandfather must’ve drawn are hung carefully along the wall. Winston hops noisily up the steps behind us, the last few giving way to an open living room and kitchen. I peer up at the high ceiling, the decor right out of Pinterest, everything simple in a neat and trendy way, from the potted plants, to the pillows on the couch, to the pictures hung on the wall.
The only thing out of place is the pile of moving boxes sitting in the corner, Sharpie-covered labels indicating their contents.
Our dads are right in the middle of the room in full lounge mode, mine on the leather couch, Johnny in an armchair that clearly prioritizes style over comfort, beers in front of the both of them.
“Hey, girls,” my dad says, looking over at us. “How was—”
“Took you two long enough!” a voice says, cutting him off. A glass door across the room swings open as Blake’s grandma trots in from the huge balcony, a cane clutched in her hand. She looks frailer than I remember, her cheeks gaunt.
She nods to the two pizza boxes on the glass coffee table, her white beehive of hair refusing to budge even an inch. “The pizza almost went cold!”
“I got stuck at work,” Blake says, covering for our stop at Hank’s as she gives her a hug hello, the tiny woman’s body disappearing from view. Winston peers up at Blake, sniffing the air like he senses the lie. She shoots a glare at him.
“Besides, Grandma, the pizza probably went cold on the delivery driver’s way out here!” Blake’s grandmother smiles warmly at her before nodding in agreement. I stifle a laugh at Winston’s lie detector of a nose, giving Mrs. Carter a quick hug before plopping down beside my dad on the couch.
I gaze around the brightly lit room, taking in the fireplace and the view of the sunset. This place is even cooler inside than it is outside, the concrete floors accenting the sleek kitchen design. “This is a really great house, Mrs. Carter.”
Blake’s grandma laughs, the tan skin around her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Oh, not you too! It’s all Blake ever talks about,” she says. “Good thing my husband isn’t here to hear this. His head would be too big to fit in this house of his.”
We grab some plates and eat our pizza, and as usual the simplest thing has Johnny diving straight into storytelling mode. Today it’s tomato sauce.
“What year was it, Joe? Tenth grade? The Cafeteria Incident?”
My dad smirks, taking a swig of his beer. “Yep. Tenth grade. It was lasagna day in the cafeteria, and I sent a sauce-covered brick of it across the room at Luke Price. It exploded all over his white shirt.”
“All hell broke loose,” Johnny says, setting the scene. “In an instant, food was everywhere. Kids diving under tables for cover. The lunch ladies barricading themselves in the kitchen.” He grins at me, touching his cheek. “Your mom hit me square in the face with a tuna sandwich before running off to a calculus class she was probably the only one to show up to. I think Joe fell in love with her right then and there.”
“It got so bad in the cafeteria, the police had to be called,” my dad says, all of us laughing. “A kid got carted off for a flying-milk-carton-induced concussion.”
It’s weird to hear my dad talking so openly about the past, especially a story that has my mom in it. Maybe even the moment he first started falling for her. How can he talk so freely with Johnny but always clams up with me?
We’ve never been big on talking, especially about feelings, but I can’t help but be… I don’t know. Jealous? Hurt?
“It took the whole school two days to clean up the mess we made,” Johnny says, wiping away a tear from all the laughter. “I’m pretty certain there’s still a chocolate-pudding stain on the ceiling.”
“I almost killed you both,” Mrs. Carter adds, still doubled over.
I watch in awe as Johnny and Blake down an entire pizza by themselves through several more stories, having absolutely no idea where it could possibly fit inside their lanky bodies. Soon the plates rest on the coffee table, the laughter dying down, a single slice sitting in the center of the second box.
“We’ll clean up,” Johnny says, reaching for it. “You girls can work on Blake’s stuff. I got a bit of a head start today while you were at work.”
“If you call unpacking a single box and watching TV a head start, I’d hate to see what the rest of the race looks like,”
