The Real

“You can’t cook. I bet you wish you would have helped in the kitchen more rather than whined.”

“Mom, I’m glad you think this is funny, but I really, really like him. Okay?”

“Why haven’t I heard about him before now?”

“Because I wasn’t sure, and parents don’t need to know every hit or miss of their daughter’s dating life. Don’t be hurt. I wanted to make sure it was something before I told you. So, will you help me?”

“Sure, you can bring him to dinner next week.”

“No way. Too soon.”

“But we are negotiating,” she said with a playful lift.

“No, we’re not. Mom. Help me, okay? I don’t have time to look up recipes and I kind of want to impress him,” I whispered.

“Does this man have a name?”

“For you? Not yet.”

“Fine, but I want dinner with you. Next week.”

“Done,” I gritted out. “And I would have come anyway.”

“I’ll text you a recipe.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“And, Abbie?”

“Yeah?” I whispered as I looked back at Cameron, who was sitting on the edge of the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV. I briefly daydreamed about a future where getaways became our ritual.

“If all else fails, add more butter.”

“Okay.”

More minutes than my promised half hour later, I had my mother’s creamy rosemary chicken on a bed of pasta and a tossed salad on the table. I was happy with the execution, and Cameron seemed to be as well as he closed his eyes with his first bite.

“This is incredible.”

“Thank you,” I boasted as he inhaled a mouthful of pasta.

“So, I think it’s time you had me over for dinner,” he said with a wink.

“Do you?” I said in a slight panic. I could have Mrs. Zingaro give me her recipe for ziti. That would buy me a week.

Cameron’s next words cut through my thoughts. “How is your mother?”

“She’s fi—” I deadpanned. “You’re an ass, you know that? And how could you have possibly heard that conversation?”

“You get good picking it up being a high school coach. And, Abbie,” he said around a mouthful of garlic toast, “it’s good to know you really, really like me.”

My face flamed as he devoured the chicken on his plate and forked another piece out of the cast iron skillet. I stood from the table to get the bottle of wine. He circled my waist with his arm and pulled me onto his waiting lap.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some wine. Want some?” I asked as he moved my hair away from my shoulder and rested his chin on my neck.

“Nope.” He twisted his fork, gaining a bite of pasta and brought it to