Zach laughed as he wiped the twins’ hands down with a sanitizer. “Ari, guys rarely invite platonic female friends, shoot, not even female coworkers, to Thanksgiving. Too many questions and assumptions. If he invited you for Thanksgiving without batting an eye? Yeah, that dude likes you, Ari.”
Nervousness settled in my stomach like a boulder. It felt as if I had ocean-liner-level motion sickness even though I was sitting down.
Bella took one look at me and laughed as she did her best Whoopi Goldberg impression. “Ari, you’re in danger, girl.”
Chapter Twenty
Ari
After changing clothes three times, I’d settled on a casual black turtleneck, a tan cardigan, and jeans with leopard flats. Since I didn’t want to show up empty-handed like an improper Southern belle, I decided to bake my mama’s famous lemon pound cake with caramel glaze. It had been so long since I’d been to a proper, sit-down Thanksgiving dinner. Porter had offered to come and pick me up, but I opted to drive. Just in case I wanted to make a run for it, I could. Meeting a guy’s parents made me nervous, which was why I rarely did it. Porter spoke so highly about his mother; I expected Clair Huxtable in the flesh. But again, this wasn’t a big deal. We weren’t a couple. It was just dinner. With his entire family. Fuck. Maybe I should make a run for it, head to Kroger, get some ice cream to go with this cake and go home.
As soon as I was about to put the car back in drive to book it, Porter was knocking at my window. He stood outside, grinning widely. I rolled down my window, feeling an early winter chill in the air.
“Hey. Is everything okay? You’ve been outside a minute,” he asked. With a brief gust of wind, I could smell his familiar cologne. Porter wore a denim shirt, his sleeves rolled up to show his strong, muscular forearms. And had he shaved for the occasion? I bit my lip. It just made no sense for him to be this fine. Maybe I should just go inside to thank his mother for making him.
“Is that a cake on the front seat? Looks amazing,” Porter said, practically drooling in the window.
“It sure is. My mama’s recipe.” I smiled tightly and handed him the cake through the window. He held the cake with one hand and opened my car door with another. I took a deep breath and grabbed my purse. Porter extended his free hand and helped me out of the driver’s side.
“It’s going to be fine. My family is totally normal,” said Porter. “Well, except my brother Todd. I’m pretty sure he’s an alien.” We both chuckled, walking up the sidewalk toward the house. As we approached the door, I felt Porter’s hand on the small of my back. As he leaned toward me, I felt the tickle of his breath on my ear.
“You look amazing,” he whispered. His thumb made small circles on the small of my back. I felt goose bumps down my spine. It was less like goose bumps and more like deep reverberations. I looked at his hazel-green eyes dazzling in the midday sun. He looked so happy to have me here that I couldn’t help but smile.
He opened the door, beckoning me inside. The foyer to the home was covered with colorful, floor-to-ceiling paintings. They were remarkable. I stopped to admire them. I gently fingered the canvas, feeling the brushstrokes of thick, oil-based paint on the canvas. You could tell whoever created them really was passionate about their work.
“This is my stepdad Desmond’s work. Pretty amazing, huh?” he said. I was almost speechless at how vibrant they were. Aside from pretentious dudes who proclaimed to be artists and just sold T-shirts, I’d never met a real, live visual artist before. Desmond was a genuine artist. It was masterful.
“They’re breathtaking, Porter,” I said, turning to look at him.
“Now, don’t ask me what any of it means. I’m sure there is some deep, esoteric meaning that I’m just not able to wrap my head around. I’m no art critic. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“There she is!” said a voice out of nowhere.
Porter’s mother came around the corner. A slim, dark-skinned woman with closely cropped relaxed hair, she wore cat-eye frames and a Kente cloth patchwork apron that said World’s Best Grandma. The pictures in Porter’s office didn’t do her beauty any justice. She looked more like his sister than mother; clearly her black was not cracking. She quickly wiped her hands on the hem of her apron. “Hello, Ari! I’m Porter’s mom, Eloise.” I extended my hand for a shake, but Eloise pulled me in for a hug. She smelled like all the spices of the season, warm and inviting. She smelled like memories of home.