My mom is no joke when it comes to cooking. She’s one of eleven children, which means that she’s used to turning something simple into something spectacular, and then making a lot of it. She and my dad have lived in Ketterbridge their whole lives, which means that they have lots of friends who like to visit regularly - along with the constant parade of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews. My parents love to entertain. Even when it’s just me visiting, they go all out.

The outside dining table is across from the vegetable garden, a subtle reminder from my mother that most of what you’re eating was grown just feet away. The table is made of aged wood, further weathered by years of use and exposure to the elements. There’s always a row of candles down the middle, and in the classic style of my mom, not one piece of dishware matches any of the others. Aiden is handed a round blue plate with paintings of white lilies on it, and I’m given a flat clay one with little carvings of fish up the side. My dad is already seated, stubbing the joint into an ashtray as my mom distributes water glasses of all sizes and colors. Nugget, my mom’s fiendish little dog, is at her heels begging already, though no food has been set out yet.

Only the barest trace of light is left in the sky; it’s the blue hour already. The sun was setting when Aiden and I went up to my room. Today has flown by faster than I could have imagined. Our witchcraft conversation feels like it was a week ago.

My mom gives us a smile and pinches my cheek, heading back into the house to grab some trays. I go with her, leaving Aiden to take a seat next to my dad. The back door is propped wide open, and soon we both return with steaming plates of goodness. My mom doesn’t stick to one particular type of cooking. She’ll cook food from anywhere, with any kind of ingredients, and even from any time period - Kasey once bought her a cookbook of Medieval recipes (typical). I learned quickly that a one-pot rabbit stew was not for me, even with the recipe in my mother’s capable hands.

Tonight, she’s made one of my favorites, a recipe she dug out of one of her old books. She must have been up early this morning, frying chicken to be ground up with onions and parsley and saffron and made into sausages. The sausages are laid out with cheese, cloves, and ginger onto a layer of pastry, then covered with a second pastry layer sprinkled with chopped dates and almonds. Then she covers the whole thing with dough, like a pie, and bakes it in embers. It’s something like a torta. It makes my mouth water as I set it out on the table, along with the cold, chopped tomatoes she’d seasoned and a cucumber salad splashed with vinegar. A bottle of wine would usually be out on the table, but tonight she’s brought a sweating pitcher of Italian lemonade instead.

“Good lord in heaven,” Aiden says, when I transfer a slice to his plate.

Dinner passes in a blur of conversation and big forkfuls and the cold bite of the lemonade. The last of the sunlight fades away. Nugget finally gives up on begging and settles for watching us eat with a resentful expression on his puppy face. Aiden makes my mom very happy by asking for thirds. At one point my dad, aggrieved by my mother’s comments about his guitar playing, responds by popping inside to retrieve the cursed instrument - “let’s let Aiden judge for himself, why don’t we?” - and performs a serenade, which Aiden gives a solid 3/10.

“If he marked me any higher, we’d know he was a liar,” my dad improvises, strumming away.

My parents ask Aiden some questions, but they parse pretty quickly that he likes to listen more than talk, and they’re fine with that. They tell him stories about me, and themselves, and ask after Kent, Ellen, and the flower shop. They’re interested in Aiden’s work at City Hall, and they listen with close interest to what he says about the photographs. Does he archive anything else (yes, all kinds of different old documents), doesn’t it hurt his eyes being in that low light at work all day (no, not with proper breaks) and, of course, how is his boss?

Aiden surprises me with his answer to this one: “I don’t know, I haven’t met her yet.”

“Haven’t you been working there ever since you moved back to Ketterbridge?” my mom asks. “How’ve you managed to never meet her? I probably know who it is, what’s her name?”

“She’s a fresh hire from out of town,” Aiden explains, taking a sip of his lemonade. “She hasn’t moved here yet, she’s working remotely until she can. Her name is Gabrielle Soto, I know that much.”

“I don’t know that name,” my mom says, nibbling thoughtfully on her last bite of torta. “I haven’t been to City Hall in a good long minute, though. I would love to see those photos. Aiden, honey, did you say you’re putting them on a website?”

“Oh, no, just into the archives.”

“That’s a shame,” my dad observes. “I’m sure people would like to see them. Why should Jamie get to have all the fun? Sneak me into your office next time, Aiden.”

“Probably not,” Aiden answers, grinning.

“Why not? No boss around to fire you!”

Aiden chuckles and opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t hear what he’s saying. I just watch his face across the table, the way the glow of the candlelight jumps and flickers against it. He forgot his hat upstairs when we left my bedroom, and some of his golden-brown hair falls down over his eyebrow, the rest of it a little tousled and messed up from being under a snapback all day. My whole body feels lighter for his warm presence, and every time he laughs my heart skips like a CD with a deep scratch.

Aiden Callahan, I think, and have to wonder yet again how the hell I got here.

We help my dad get all the dishes inside after the last bit of dessert has disappeared. When he’s up to his elbows in dish soap - and having shooed us away, ignoring our offers of assistance - Aiden and I drift back out to the garden and sit in the swinging seat attached to the old tree there. My mom comes out to deliver us two steaming mugs before retreating inside.

“What is this?” Aiden asks, taking a sniff. “It smells like coffee, but different.”

“Moretta,” I tell him. “It’s a blend of espresso, anise, lemon rind… and a bunch of sugar. Also some brandy and rum, but don’t worry, she didn’t put any in yours. I gave her a heads up before we came over.”

“Oh.” Aiden folds his hands around the warm little cup. “That’s nice. Thanks.” Fireflies drift out over the lawn. Nugget, half-asleep beneath our feet, lets out a little pup-sigh. A burst of my mom’s loud laughter escapes the open kitchen window, and we both turn to see my dad flicking soap bubbles at her. “You know, having met your parents, I think I understand you a little bit better.”

“Hey, my parents don’t define me.”

“No, of course not.” He smiles, taking a sip from his mug. “I notice for example that the Bigfoot memorabilia is strictly contained to your room. Along with that X-Files poster. I had no idea you were a tinfoil hat guy. Into conspiracy theories?”

“No. Definitely not. Side note: Al Roker is a clone and I can prove it.”

“I’m suddenly afraid to ask your opinion on the moon landing,” Aiden laughs. “It’s weird that you’re into all that stuff but you don’t believe in ma-”

“You’re my best friend, too.”

Aiden stops mid-sentence, and my ears are suddenly burning.

“What?”

“I just realized I didn’t say it back. Upstairs.” Oh, god. I’m botching this. “I mean, obviously Kasey is my best friend forever, but. There’s no rule against more than one, right?”

Aiden smiles, half-sad, half-bright.

“Right,” he agrees softly. A silence falls over us for a moment. “But, you know - you don’t have to -”

“No, it’s true. I’m not just saying it.”

We stare at each other, and then break into quiet laughter, silly with too much food and a spike of sugar and caffeine and heavy summer night air.

“Jamie.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you tell me about that dream you’re having again? What happens, exactly?”

I don’t know why he wants to hear - maybe he just wants me to talk for a bit, let him sit in his silence. But he listens closely as I describe everything, his expression thoughtful.

“Hmm,” he says, when I get to the end. “Well, I hope you have better dreams tonight.”

Nugget, who had been snoozing with his paws in the grass, suddenly springs to his feet and shakes himself off. He bounds towards the house, his ears flapping in the wind.

“Off to help my dad with the cleanup,” I guess, and Aiden chuckles.

“Speaking of which, let’s go. I can’t stand by while Marcus does a mountain of dishes by himself.”

“Noooooo,” I groan, setting my coffee cup down on the swinging bench next to Aiden’s as he gets to his feet. “You let my mom do the cooking by herself!”

“She basically threatened to chop my hands off if I tried to help.”

“She would, too. Noooo, Aiden, come on-” I reach out to grab his hand to prevent him from walking away, but I get his wrist instead. He turns to face me with a devious look in his eyes that almost reminds me of his high school self. Before I can parse what’s happening, he’s scooped me out of the bench and slung me over his shoulder. The world is suddenly upside down, and my face is bumping into his lower back, and he’s got his arms linked around the backs of my legs. “Oh my fucking god!”

“Inside,” he says stoically, ignoring me as I squirm and pound my fists into his back.

“Aiden!”

“Here we go.” He sets me down just outside of the door. I immediately smack his chest with the back of my hand, but I’m laughing and he’s laughing and he catches my fingers before they bounce away.

“You giant, stupid idiot-”

“Hang on.” He presses his index finger over my lips again. “Do you hear someone else in there?”

I open the door to find that we’ve had a new arrival since Aiden and I went out in the garden.

“Angie?” She twists to look up at me. She’s crouched over Nugget, scratching his furry ears, her faded Jansport backpack next to her on the floor.

“Hey!” she says brightly, straightening up. “Thought I might run into you here! Oh, and - Aiden?”

“Young Mr. Callahan joined us for dinner,” my dad announces, stacking the dishwasher.

“Did he?” Angie gives me a we’re-discussing-this-later look, and I quickly search for a change of subject.

“What are you doing here, Ang?”

“Checking this one’s paw.” She scoops Nugget off the floor. He struggles in her arms, trying to lick her face. “He stepped on a bee yesterday, I came over to see if the anti-inflammatories were working. It was on my way home, anyway. Now your mom won’t let me leave without an armful of Tupperware.”

“I know you’re vegetarian, Angie, so I only put in the cucumber salad, the tomatoes, and the dessert.”

“Only that,” Angie laughs. “He seems okay, Mary. He just needs some TLC.” She places Nugget back on the ground. “Thanks for all the food, but I’m not sure I can get it back on my bicycle.”

“We’ll give you a ride home, Ang,” I offer.

“Oh. Well, in that case…” She accepts the Tupperware from my mom, who gives her an approving smile. “But I do have to leave kind of soon, I have an early surgery tomorrow.”

“We were just going to help with the dishes,” Aiden says.

“Go on, go on,” my dad says. “Give the lady a ride home.”

Angie catches my hand when we step outside; Aiden is still saying his goodbyes.

“What’s going on? You two are hanging out, now? He’s just over here meeting your parents?”

“Later, later!” I hiss, as Aiden steps outside.

“What are you two talking about?” He eyes us with obvious suspicion.

“Nugget,” Angie and I say at the same time, then turn to look at each other in surprise.

“Alright…”

“Yep, Nugget. We were talking about Nugget. Anyways, should we get going?”

“Aiden, I’m glad to run into you,” Angie says a few minutes later, leaning forward from the back seat of my car. “I know we haven’t been in touch since my party. I was going to call you, but I didn’t have your number!”

Oh, no, I can’t help but think. Please tell me Angie isn’t into Aiden. How long had they talked at the party? Would he be into her? What, just because she’s beautiful and nice and smart and has her own house and-?

“What’s up?” Aiden asks.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry that Ralph and those guys were behaving like assholes. I hadn’t seen them all in a long time, I kind of forgot how they were.”

Relief floods my chest.

“Oh. Don’t be sorry about that. I appreciate what you were trying to do.” Aiden loosens his seatbelt to turn and look at her. “I forgot how they were, too. It was - quite the reminder.”

“I should have known better. Ralph is such an asshole sometimes.” Angie scowls, leaning back in her seat. “For the record, I think it was really messed up that he asked out Melanie after you left town.”

I can’t see Aiden’s facial expression without taking my eyes off the road, but it must be something, because Angie quickly adds:

“Oh, I’m sorry, I - didn’t you know?”

“No.” Aiden turns to face forward again, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“They only went out like once,” Angie qualifies. She and I catch eyes in the rearview mirror, and she cringes. “I’m pretty sure she only went because she was mad at you, and -”

“Angie, it’s fine. I don’t blame Melanie for anything she did after I left, and either way, she’s free to do what she wants. What a prick Ralph is, though.”

“Agreed,” Angie and I both say at the same time.

Before long we’re pulling up in front of Kent’s house. It’s the closest to my parent’s, and Angie wants to say hi to Kent. Ellen is perched on the front steps when we pull up, half-heartedly doodling in a notebook with a crayon. She peers through the darkness at the three of us when we approach.

“Oh my god,” Angie says, dropping to a crouch in front of her. “Ellen! Is that you? I haven’t seen you since you were tiny.”

“You remember Angie, right, El?” I ask. Ellen blinks at Angie, considering.

“You have fur on your clothes,” she points out.

“I’m a vet,” Angie explains. “I pet a lot of dogs and cats.”

“You get to pet dogs every day?” Ellen asks, curious. “That’s your job?”

“My job is to make sick animals better.”

Ellen stares at her, a little shy.

“I like your hair,” she blurts out.

“Why, thank you.” Angie reaches up and pulls out a few pins, revealing the full fro. Ellen smiles, clearly delighted. “I like yours, too.”

Ellen shyly touches her braids, which have colorful beads at the end.

“My dad took a class to learn how to do it,” she explains.

“As he should,” Angie says, approvingly. “Oh, here’s the man!”

“There’s a party on my doorstep and I’m not even invited?” asks Kent, who has just opened the door. Angie straightens up to give him a hug. “How’ve you been, Angie?”

The conversation picks up, and for once I find myself the quietest one. I feel like I have a lot to process from today. I need to lie down. I need a drink.

I need Kasey.