Page 62 of From Square One

“Riley!” His eyes sparkle with excitement, and suddenly, he’s seizing my face, wrenching me to my tiptoes, and planting a hefty kiss between my brows. He scoops me up around the shoulders and hauls me and my suitcase inside with one arm, then calls out, “Greg—the favorite is back!”

“What?” a booming voice replies. Squeezing through a distant doorway is the beefiest, roundest, hairiest man I’ve ever seen. He’s not bald, though, and has a full set of highlighted brown hair that blends into his bushy sideburns and scraggly beard.

I’m in a bewildered daze, made worse when he hurries toward us and does the exact same thing the first man did by grabbing my face and kissing my forehead. “Good to see you, angel,” he says, clapping my shoulder gently. “How’ve you been feeling? Aaron been treating you right?”

I don’t know how to respond. Aaron’s fathers have always been a blurred smear in my mind—blank faces, vague outlines. I figured they’d look like regular suburban dads, not two of the world’s most intimidating bears.

“Look at that dead stare,” the first guy says, patting my hair, his hand the size of my entire head. “He’s terrified.”

“What?” I squeak, snapping out of my stupor. “No, I’m sorry, I’m just a little…”

“It’s okay,” the second man says. “We won’t beat you up and take your lunch money.”

“Not with Aaron right around the corner.”

“I’m Greg, or Dad,” says the bigger, paler one, shaking my limp hand.

“And I’m Antony, or Pops,” says the bald one, shaking my other limp hand.

“We’ve been trying to get you to call us by name, but you still only call us Mr. Beckham.” Greg clicks his tongue in that teasing disappointed way I’ve seen Aaron mimic. “So formal and polite. Aaron could learn a thing.”

“And he has,” Antony claims. “That boy was a wildfire. Now he’s a semi-responsible adult. Who knew all he needed was a pretty blond boy with a mother’s glare to stop acting up?”

I feel like the world is tilting. They’re chatting about Aaron so casually, and it’s overwhelming, considering my mind is saying this is our first meeting. Still, my brain manages to find space to process their words. Are they really implying Aaron has matured from his troublemaking ways because of me? The thought flushes my cheeks with satisfaction.

“Are you talking shit?” comes another voice, and a head pokes around the drywall from where I assume the kitchen is. Aaron is sporting a gray bandanna that matches his irises and the black dagger earring from the carnival, wagging a kitchen knife around. The sight of it brings back my sense of smell, and I realize the house is permeated with the scent of seasoned meat.

His irritable gaze meets mine, and I swear his entire face starts sparkling. “Sunshine,” he says, far more brightly than whatever sunniness he thinks I radiate. “You’re early. That excited to see me?”

That earns an eye roll. “I’m punctual,” I say shortly, and all of them laugh like I’m joking.

“We’ll be out of here in a few minutes,” Antony tells us. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your romantic evening.”

“That taco bar is going to ruin it, if anything,” Greg says, massaging his scruffy gray-flecked beard. “Shouldn’t you know better than to eat greasy red meat before a night of intimacy?”

“We’re not having penetrative sex!” Aaron says, a bit shrilly, and hearing him so frazzled is funny enough to snap me out of my embarrassment.

“We’re not?” I ask in mock disappointment, shuffling toward the kitchen, where Aaron is dicing onions. “You mean I don’t get to rail you?”

His dads burst into laughter, and in my head, I know talking about this in front of strangers, let alone his family, should be mortifying. But I can feel the house’s warmth permeating me, sinking me into a sense of familiar comfort I’ve never felt before. I’m not sure why—it’s not like my family is cold and distant. Maybe it’s just the fact that Aaron told me they’ve taken extra precautions to keep me from getting sick, like crafting a mini pantry solely for my products and setting aside a counter space dedicated to me. Or because I know they don’t want anything out of me.

“I mean, you tried once,” Aaron says with a skeptical smile. “You gave up because you kept laughing hysterically. You’re welcome to try railing me again if you desire.”

That’s what gets the flames of humiliation rising. I want to claim he’s lying, but envisioning myself absolutely giving it to Aaron Beckham makes me instantly giggly, so he’s probably not.

Aaron’s dads finish packing their suitcases and take off. On their way out, Antony rumples my hair, bends down, and speaks softly so only I can hear him.

“You can come home whenever you want, Riley. Anytime, any day, no questions asked.”

The kindness in his voice wells up my eyes with tears, and I have to frantically blink them away. “Thanks,” I mumble.

Then they’re gone, and it’s just Aaron and me. I re-familiarize myself with the house—it’s cute in this purposefully archaic way, with lots of wood paneling on the floors, walls, and ceiling beams. The windows are gaping, allowing sunlight to streak and vein through the house, warming the floorboards. They have a cobblestone fireplace that would make everything extra cozy in the winter. There are three bedrooms—a primary suite, Aaron’s room (judging by the worktable cluttered with wooden blocks and tools), and a guest room equipped with a twin bed, nightstand, and desk.

“Yours,” Aaron’s voice says in my ear.

I arch my head back, and he responds with a kiss to my brow. “I didn’t stay in your room?”

“You like your space. Though you never let me hang up decor and paint it. You kept insisting it was short-term—that staying here was an experiment to see what life was like outside of your family. You tried to avoid getting too comfortable.” He smirks. “My dads still made you a desk anyway, so you’d have someplace to study for freshman year.”