Paul poked his head into the kitchen, lured by the smell of baking bread. His mom stood at the stove, stirring something in her big stockpot. Paul leaned over the pot to look inside. “Potato soup. How did I get so lucky to have potato soup for dinner?”
She pushed his head out of the way playfully. “You’ll get hair in it. And it’s me who got lucky. This dinner is a celebration.”
“Oh yeah? What are we celebrating?” His mom was big on celebratory food. She made a cake when he was six, and wrote, “Paul can ride a bike!” on it in shaky blue frosting. There was meatloaf with candles in it when he got an A on a Biology test, and she even got out the fondue set when she traded in her old Ford for a not-quite-as-old Honda.
“Let me get dinner on the table, then I’ll tell you.” She let out a little squeal, giddy with her news, and he had to laugh at the lightness it created in his own chest. She opened the oven door and gestured inside. “Look, Paulie. I made bread bowls for the soup.”
He grinned at her. “That’s awesome, Mom.” He pulled out two plates and two spoons, and set them on the small table.
“There’s plenty here if you want to invite Malcolm to join us...or someone else,” she said.
There is no privacy in a small town. Someone must have seen him with Celia and reported back to his mom. He thought about what it would be like if Celia came over for dinner. He wanted her near, craved her company. His mom seemed good tonight, so it was as good a night as any other. He wanted Celia to know the best parts of his mom, because there were a lot of those. If she came tonight, it might mitigate any bad things she’d heard, or anything she might learn in the future.
“You know what, Mom? There is someone I’d like to invite.”
“Give her a call. I’ll set out another plate.”
He pulled out his phone, but decided against calling. “I think I’ll go on over to her house and get her. She’s more likely to say yes that way.”
Mom stirred the soup and smiled softly. “Be quick; the bread will be done soon and I want to serve it warm.”
Paul practically jogged to Celia’s house, but slowed down as he approached her front porch, noticing some laughter from out back. He walked around the house, patting down his hair to make sure it wasn’t sticking up funny.
Mr. and Mrs. Young sat talking near the fire pit, huddled close together. Celia and Abe were in the grass, hitting a badminton birdie back and forth. Abe didn’t have a racket—he was using his hands to hit the birdie back to his sister.
Paul watched for a moment, mesmerized by Celia acting goofy and unrestrained. The birdie bounced off Abe’s forehead, and he shouted, “Ouch!” gleefully. Celia managed to hit it back, but it went low and disappeared under a bush by the house.
“Not again!” Abe exclaimed. Celia cackled as he dropped down to his belly to wriggle under the bush, clearly enjoying himself.
Paul shuffled his feet in the grass, and cleared his throat, hoping to alert them to his presence without startling them. Celia turned her head in his direction. She raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together, a move he’d learned was designed to keep her from smiling or otherwise revealing that she was a human person who felt things.
“Hello.” He waved awkwardly at her parents, then shook off the nerves and reminded himself he was good with grown-ups. “Hi Mr. and Mrs. Young. How are you tonight?”
Celia’s mom straightened up in her chair and smiled. “Hello, Paul. You know Paul Martin, don’t you, Todd? Rebecca’s boy? I believe you went to school with Paul’s uncle Bill.”
“Ah, yes, Billy Martin. He was a good kid,” Mr. Young said. “Moved to Texas, didn’t he?”
Paul nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.”
“Would you like to pull up a chair and join us, Paul?” Mrs. Young said, and elbowed her husband in the arm. “Don’t you think that would be alright?”
Mr. Young rubbed his arm where she had jabbed him, and smiled at his wife. “Well, I don’t see why not. Come on over and take a load off. We’ve got iced tea and a real nice fire.”
Paul didn’t want to offend Mr. Young by declining the invitation, but the bread bowls were almost done. Plus, Celia was looking a little pale. “It is a nice night for sitting out, but I was hoping I could steal Celia away for a little bit. My mom is making potato soup, and we set out an extra place for her.”
“It’s a bit late for supper, don’t you think? On a school night?” Mr. Young said.
Paul glanced at Celia, who dropped her head down, not giving him any clue as to how he should respond. Beside her, Abe dropped the retrieved birdie and picked up a long stick, which he used to poke holes in the ground, not looking at anyone.
Paul looked back at Mr. Young. “Yes, sir. It’s kind of late. My mom worked a long day, and I had to work after school.”
It was a good answer, and Mr. Young nodded his head once, quickly. “You do a little lawn mowing, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir.” Pride tugged at Paul’s lips, and he fought the urge to tell him that it wasn’t just a little mowing, that it was a business and he was half owner of it. “I keep pretty busy with it. Mostly weekends now, but we have a few customers who talked us into weeknights.”
“I do appreciate a hard-working man.” He tipped the cup of iced tea he was holding toward Paul, as punctuation on his praise. “It’s too bad we already ate. Celia doesn’t need two dinners.”
Celia didn’t raise an objection. She sucked her cheeks in, looking like she was biting back some words, and kept her head down.
Paul slipped his hands in his pockets and waited a moment longer. The fire crackled, and a cicada whirred from high up in a tree, but none of them spoke. “Alright. Well, I better get back home. Goodnight, Celia.”
He turned to leave, when Mrs. Young spoke. “Paul, she can go. Be back by ten, Celia.”
Celia’s head flew up, and Abe straightened in his seat. Paul looked back and forth between her parents. He sure hoped he wasn’t about to be cause of an argument.
“It’s fine, isn’t it, Todd?” Mrs. Young added, and put her hand on her husband’s forearm.
Silence stretched. Mr. Young took a slow drink of his tea, before looking at Celia. “I suppose it’s fine.”
Abe let out a huge, loud breath, and Celia went to him and kissed the top of his head before walking over to Paul. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “Quickly.”
“Good night Mr. and Mrs. Young, Abe,” he said, and gave a small wave.
“Ten o’clock, Celia,” Mrs. Young said, and pointed to her watch. Celia nodded and grabbed Paul’s elbow, leading him back around the house.
They didn’t speak until they were two houses past Celia’s. Every time he was with her, some time had to be spent waiting and watching as she shed her thick shell, let her husk fall away, and immersed herself in the present moment instead of where she’d just been. He was glad to wait.