Page 70 of The Beach Trap

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A few hourslater, I’m in the kitchen and Blake is sitting outside at the table I set with place mats and an ornate coral centerpiece that I got from a gallery in Buckhead in exchange for an Instagram post.

Blake offered to help, but I insisted that she’s my guest tonight, and I don’t want her to lift a finger unless it’s bringing her wineglass to her mouth. I figure this evening can be a thank-you for all the hard work she’s been putting in.

As an extra-special treat, I decide to make my dad’s famous fettuccine alfredo. When I was a kid, I thought he was an amazing chef until I grew up and realized he just made this one dish really, really well.

I transfer the pasta from the pot to the cerulean-blue serving dish I bought today for the occasion, and carefully place the shrimp on top because presentation matters. The salad is already on the table, so I just need to bring out the pasta and the bread.

“Dinner’s ready!” I call out to Blake through the open window.

She stands and pops her head in the door. “Can I help bring anything out?”

“Sure,” I say, taking the pasta dish and nodding toward the tray with the garlic bread. “Can you grab that?”

She smiles and walks behind me, craning her neck to see the dish in my hands. “Fe-tu-chi-ni,” she says in the same bad Italian accent my dad used to use when he served the dish. “It smells just like Dad used to make.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the gut, and I turn so shedoesn’t see the heartbreak on my face. My dad’s been gone more than three months, but it feels like I keep losing more pieces of him with every new realization.

“This was the one and only meal he’d cook when he was at our house,” Blake continues. “Other than that, my mom barely let him in the kitchen.”

I try to manage a laugh, but it sounds more like a choked sob. The dish feels heavy in my hands; the memory I’d been looking forward to sharing with Blake feels tarnished now that I know she has her own version of the same exact one. Just like she had her own version of my dad.

Blinking back tears, I set the dish down on the table and force a happy expression because my mom taught me the most important thing a hostess can serve is a smile to make her guests feel comfortable.

“So,” I say, helping myself to a scoop of salad and a slice of bread. “Tell me about this guy you’re dating.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blake says, her cheeks blushing. “It’s still early days, too new to talk about.”

Ordinarily, I’d try to get her to spill at least a few details, but with our current relationship status being as fragile as it is, I don’t want to risk pushing her away.

Blake picks up the seashell tongs—another of today’s purchases—and looks up before she digs into the pasta. “Do you want to take a picture first?”

I’d thought about it, but the dish no longer feels special. It was just my dad’s shtick. “Go ahead,” I tell her.

Blake smiles and helps herself to the fettuccini.

“Mmm,” she says after her first bite. “It’s even better than I remember.”

“I modified his recipe a bit,” I tell Blake, trying to keep things light even though my heart is sinking like a stone. “I added somefreshly shredded Parmesan in with the grated Kraft kind he always used.”

“It’s amazing,” she says, taking another bite. She notices I haven’t taken any and pushes the bowl in my direction.

It does smell good, and if this is the last time I’m ever going to make it, which I have a feeling it will be, I might as well taste it.

“This is a little weird, right?” Blake asks, acknowledging the elephant who isn’t just in the room, but sitting at the table between us. “That he made the same thing for both of us?”

“Soweird.” I never would’ve brought it up, but I’m glad she did. The tension in the air already feels lighter, even as the silence settles between us.

After a few moments, Blake eases into the conversation we’ve been circling around for weeks. “What was he like?” she asks, taking a sip of the rosé she brought.

“My dad?” I ask, as if she could be talking about anyone else.

Blake nods, and I take a deep breath, trying to think of how to describe the man I spent so much of my life worshipping. My feelings about him have always been complicated, even more so now that he’s gone.

I look up at Blake, whose brown eyes reflect the same trepidation I feel, and I imagine this isn’t easy for her, either.

“He wasn’t around much,” I finally tell her. “When he wasn’t working, he was playing golf or watching baseball.”

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