Something in the Way (Something in the Way 1)

“Thank you for having me. Dinner smells great.”

“I’ve been in here all evening, so even if you don’t like the steak, say you do.” Mom laughed. Nobody ever disliked her food, but she said that a lot. “Lake helped,” she said, and as an afterthought, added, “Tiffany, too. She’s great in the kitchen.”

“She is not,” I said. “She wouldn’t even set the table.”

“Lake, honey.” Mom chuckled and passed me the bouquet. “Put these in water and get our guest something to drink.”

I frowned. I just wanted Manning to know I’d done my part of the cooking with him in mind. But when he nodded at me and patted his stomach, I understood—he did know.

“I put some wine out on the bar,” Mom told me. “You like wine, don’t you, Manning?”

He hesitated. “Sure.”

It didn’t sound convincing. “Dad has beer, too,” I said.

“It’s okay. Wine is great.”

I put the flowers in a vase, then went to Dad’s bar and carried two heavy bottles back into the kitchen. I’d never opened wine before, though I’d seen it done plenty of times. I set them on the island and went to find the screw-looking thing Mom used. I rifled through a couple drawers before picking out what I was pretty sure was the right utensil. I had no idea how it worked, though.

“Did you grow up here, Manning?” Mom asked.

“Pasadena.”

I assessed the bottle of wine. The sharp part went into the top, but the top had a wrapper around it. Did that come off first?

Manning took the thingie—a corkscrew, that’s what it was called!—out of my hand and peeled away the foil.

“I know how to do it,” I said under my breath.

“You shouldn’t. You’re only sixteen.”

I watched closely as he stuck the sharp, coiled end into the cork. Exactly what I would’ve done, but when he bore down to screw it in, I was pretty sure I would’ve messed it up somehow. “I don’t know how to do it,” I admitted.

That earned me his first smile of the night. His neck muscles strained and the cork slid out with a pop.

I turned around to find Mom watching us. She pulsed her eyebrows and mouthed, So handsome.

He was. It was like our first date, me bringing him home to meet my parents. Manning moved around me, looking for wine glasses. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him where they were, because I couldn’t speak. I just wanted to watch him. Manning was here, in my kitchen, where I’d made him steak, and it was going well.

As he pulled down two wine glasses, he glanced at me. “You okay?”

I nodded. Hard. “Yes.”

“Got some sun today, huh?” He winked. “Were you outside?”

“I went to the—”

I heard Tiffany before I saw her. “I’m here, I’m here,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

My heart fell, my smile melting. Tiffany came around the corner in her short dress and a black cardigan. She’d ripped a synthetic daisy off an old hat and stuck it in her hair. She went directly to Manning. In her platforms, she had a few inches on me and came up to his shoulder. Mom wore heels. I was the only one without shoes on.

Tiffany leaned toward him, offering her cheek, but he kissed her forehead. “They kept me entertained.”

She smiled. “You met my mom?”

“Yep. Just getting her some wine.”

Tiffany moved aside so he could pull a third glass from the cupboard, but he only poured two drinks. He handed one to my Mom and kept the other for himself.

Tiffany put a hand on her hip. “What about me?”

“You’re not twenty-one. Other one’s for your dad.”

“It’s fine if she has one,” Mom said. “We aren’t stupid; we know Tiffany drinks. At least here, we can monitor it.”

Manning had the bottle in his hand, looking unsure of what to do. He set it down, so Tiffany poured her own glass.

“So, Manning.” Mom took a sip. “How long have you and Tiffany been dating?”

“We’re friends,” he said.

I looked at the ground to hide my grin.

Unlike me, neither Mom nor Tiffany liked that answer. “I’m sorry,” Mom said. “I got the impression—”

“I told you he’s a gentleman,” Tiffany snapped, looking away. “He doesn’t discuss stuff like that.”

The timer beeped. “Well, we’ll leave it at that then,” Mom said. She slid the steaks from the oven and set them on the counter. “Lake, go get your father.”

Like most other nights, I went and knocked on my dad’s study, waiting until he said, “Yes?”

“Dinner’s ready,” I said.

“I’ll be out soon,” he said without looking up from his computer. “Start without me.”

If it were up to him, he’d eat in here. One wall was a library of business and law books. His desk was topped with USC paraphernalia. Against another wall stood his regal glass case of guns. “We can’t. He’s here.”

He glanced up wearing his default expression, heavy-browed annoyance. “Who?”