Page 93 of On the Ropes
I laughed as he followed me into Linda’s front room. “I like what I like, Dean,” I called over my shoulder, running up the stairs. “And I happen to like you shirtless.”
I opened the hallway closet and quickly pulled through the few sundresses I owned. One was magically unwrinkled so I tossed it on before I got nervous. Grabbing a pair of earrings and slashing on lip gloss, I ran back down the stairs and twirled for approval.
“Now I look like a calendar model,” I said with a cheer.
Dean yanked me against his chest and gave me a firm, commanding kiss. He pinched my chin, kissed me again. “You look too beautiful for words. Like always.”
“Th-thanks,” I said, stumbling a little. “Should I bring anything?”
“Both of my mothers would never forgive me if I let you do that,” he said, starting to tug me outside.
“Oh, wait,” I said, running back to the dining room table. I opened the photo album and snatched the one of his parents in their bell-bottoms. “I’ve been meaning to give this to them all week. Is this an appropriate gift for a Knox-Morelli Sunday-night dinner?”
Warm affection flashed in his eyes. “I’ve never seen this before.” He held it closer. “Is that Eddie?”
“And Alice too.”
“Shit, someone has to show Rowan.” He handed it back to me, and I followed him outside, our hands still entwined.
“Apparently Linda’s house has always been the party house,” I said. “Most of her photo albums are from theme parties through the decades. That probably makes her, ultimately, a superior neighbor over me.”
He dropped his head to kiss the top of my hair. “That’s not possible,” he murmured.
The vibrations sent a shiver up my spine. The moonlight lit up his rugged profile, highlighting those scars. My fingers ached for my camera, all the dazzling threads of this story, of Dean’s story, coming together in my mind in a way that was as exciting as it was terrifying. Telling Dean what I saw every day—this block loves you—was about as dangerously close to real vulnerability as I’d allowed.
He squeezed my hand one more time, and then we were walking into Midge and Maria’s house—the house he’d grown up in. Inside it was brightly lit and smelled amazing. The walls were covered in pictures of their family. A song by the Temptations played on a stereo balanced on a dusty bookcase filled with pictures of Dean and recipe books.
From the kitchen, I could hear his parents speaking Italian, pots clattering in a sink.
“Is that Tabitha?” Maria asked. She poked her head out, drying her hands on a towel. “Oh, what a surprise, dear. Dean, you should have told us.”
I glanced at him. He shrugged. “If I told you I was bringing her, it would have turned into a seven-course meal.”
“Which I’m not opposed to,” I said as Maria hugged me. She barely came up to my shoulder, but she’d been a fierce hugger when I used to see her after our support groups.
“Do you like spaghetti and meatballs? Midge has been cooking her sauce all day.”
“Do I?” I said. “I’m Drew Tyler’s daughter, and he raised me up right.”
“Good, good,” Maria said. She pulled out a chair at their small dining room table and pushed me down by my shoulders. “Sit next to Dean. We’ll be out in a second.”
Midge ducked her head out. “Oh, Tabitha, I didn’t hear you come in. You don’t happen to have that whole family of yours with you, do you? I’ve made enough for seventy people.”
Dean sat in the chair next to me. “As usual,” he said with a wink. Under the table, he dropped his palm onto my knee.
“I wish,” I said. “You’ll have to start inviting Dad and Kathleen to kiddie pool nights after I leave. She’ll bring the right energy. Some people even claim she’s more fun than I am.”
Maria pressed a glass of red wine into my hand and a glass of ice water into Dean’s. I took a long sip of wine while grabbing Dean’s hand under the table and squeezing. Thinking about life on Tenth Street continuing without me, of my family visiting had knocked me for a sudden loop.
Dean’s brow furrowed until I smiled at him. “I don’t think I was ever at your house when we were in school, was I?”
“Trust me, I would have remembered,” he said. His cheeks got pink. “Um, so no.”
I reached for a framed, faded picture in the center of the table. I stroked my thumb across it—Midge, Maria, and a baby with a mat of dark, curly hair.
“Is this you?” I asked.
His lips tipped up. “You finally got those baby photos you’ve been after.”
