We order food and a round of drinks from our waitress. Once she’s gone, Theo turns his attention to me.
“Have you recovered from this afternoon?” he asks in that wry tone. But I’ve spent enough time with him now to hear the subtext. There’s genuine concern there. I may be seeing his cracks, but his wellness check makes it clear he’s seeing mine, too.
“I should be asking you that,” I deflect.
Theo’s eyebrows jump in surprise. “Eavesdropping again?”
“It’s a small house.”
“Sure is,” he murmurs, his mouth pulling up slightly.
“Too soon,” I say with a glare, but it lacks heat.
Across the table, Paul’s eyebrows raise slowly, and he pulls out his phone, tapping at the screen to show he’s minding his business.
“Is your dad causing waves?” I venture. Theo confided in me the other night; maybe he needs it now, too.
He leans back, eyeing me. “You really were listening.”
My cheeks heat as our waitress returns, setting down our beers. “Small house, I told you. Is he trying to get involved in your work issue?”
“He was our first investor and is still . . . enthusiastic.” Theo’s choosing his words carefully. He takes a sip of beer, and his mouth comes back glossy, a speck of foam clinging to the peak of his top lip. “Just wanted to give me advice, you know. Real caring shit.”
“Advice on your work issue?”
He looks down at the table, his mouth flattening. “Yeah, Anton likes to give him all the insider info, even though he’s not technically involved. They’ve got a cozy father-son vibe.”
My heart drops.
Theo must see my concern, because he frowns. “Wipe the pity off your face, Shepard. It’s not a big deal. He has opinions. Sometimes I have to hear them. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Teddy,” Paul says quietly.
“I don’t pity you,” I insist. “They’re shitty, your dad and especially Anton. It’s your business, no matter how much your dad invested early on. He should stay out of it, and Anton should respect your place in the company.”
The grief in his eyes is there and gone, but I see it because I’m close enough to. Because I’ve felt it, too.
I just don’t know why it’s there.
The arrival of dinner breaks up our conversation. Paul and I exchange a look and we make the same wordless decision simultaneously. The rest of this night is going to be lighter. We’re going to recapture our peace. I’m going to make Theo forget. Maybe even smile.
And I’m not going to think about why I want to be the one to put it there.
Seventeen
I pull my hair into a ponytail, waving my hands in front of my flushed face. “You’re an absolute machine. I can’t keep up with you.”
Paul has expertly led me through five songs, singing along with all of the classics we’ve queued up. Despite our attempts, Theo’s merely been a spectator, nursing his first beer while his granddad and I tear up the dance floor. But that smile is there, the dimple popping every time we make eye contact, which is nearly constant. His eyes are often warm, sometimes heated, as he watches me with avid interest.
“Oh, I love dancing,” Paul says, pulling me out of the snare of Theo’s dusky eyes. “One more song and then I’ll hand you over to Teddy.”
“Granddad—” Theo begins, but Paul holds up a hand.
“You owe Noelle a dance. I hope you’ve been taking notes on how it’s done.”
Theo laughs, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
But Theo’s smile quiets when I slip my hand into Paul’s, and he frames us up. My heart feels too big for my body from that look on his face, from thinking about Theo’s arms around me.
The jukebox clicks quietly, indicating it’s queuing up the next song. When it comes on, I gasp. “Oh.”
“What is it?” Paul asks as we begin to sway.
I can’t breathe through the aching. “Gram’s favorite song.”
Paul makes a soothing sound. Theo’s expression turns intent, and he curls his hand around the back of his chair, like he’s going to get up. But he doesn’t; Paul’s got me.
Etta James’s “A Sunday Kind of Love” wafts out of the jukebox. Gram and Grandpa Joe used to dance to it all the time. Now, with Paul’s paper-skinned hand gripping mine, the slight stutter in his otherwise graceful steps, I’m overwhelmed with emotion for the grandparents I was never prepared to lose. It hits me like grief often does, a wave that drowns me.
But breaking the surface is relief mixed with the joy of being here with Paul. With Theo. Being pulled into the orbit of their relationship is like living mine all over again with Gram. It hurts, but it’s a gift, too.
A tear slips down my cheek. Paul turns us just as I’m wiping it away, and Theo stands up, determined now. Paul chuckles under his breath. The transfer between grandfather and grandson is seamless, and suddenly I’m in Theo’s arms. It’s instinct to wrap my hand around the warm nape of his neck, to press in against his chest and let him take my right hand in his.
I close my eyes, rest my cheek against his shoulder. I swear I feel the sunlight on my back from my grandparents’ backyard when Thomas and I would look in the kitchen window, spying on their impromptu dances.
“I miss her,” I whisper.
Theo’s hand tightens around mine. “Tell me something.”
I’m sinking into the warmth of him now. My thoughts turn honey-like, sticky and slow. “A secret?”
His cheek brushes my temple as he shakes his head. “Something about her that made you happy.”
“How much time do you have?” I quip, smiling when he laughs softly. “I loved watching her dance with Grandpa Joe. Anytime a song came on, she’d grab his hand and make him dance with her. Even in public. I can’t tell you how many restaurants they made a scene in.”
His voice lowers, amused. “Did it embarrass you?”
“No. God, I loved it. They cracked themselves up dancing in the middle of, like, Glenlake Pizza. After Grandpa Joe died, I’d be her dance partner, which she thought was the best thing. Her laugh made me so happy.” My nose tingles with unshed tears, and I close my eyes, trying to remember the exact cadence of her laughter. “It feels like I’m forgetting it.”
For a moment, Theo simply leads me in a slow sway. From the table, Paul watches with a small, sad smile.
“Was it loud?”
I pull back, frowning. “Was what loud?”
He looks down at me, his eyes shining with mischief. “Her laugh. Was it loud?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“And did it get kind of high-pitched at the end?”
Where is this going? “Actually, yeah. A little bit.”
“Then you can’t forget, because that’s what yours sounds like,” he says. His words clutch at my throat. I stare up at him, gaping, as he moves us to the melody Gram’s laughter drowned out more than once. “I could hear you down the hall most days, Shepard. Your laugh shook the walls until it went into dog whistle mode.”
His words have a bite to them, but his expression is so soft it makes me want to pull his mouth down to mine. “Are you trying to distract me from my sadness by roasting me, Spencer?”