Page 103 of Let's Get Textual

“I think I really like your mom. She uses paper plates instead of fancy dishware on Thanksgiving—less to clean up. Smart lady.”

“She likes to keep it real. By the way, she’ll be eating dinner in those pajamas she’s cooking in. That’s why I’m in basketball shorts. I bet you ten bucks my dad is in sweats.” He eyes my outfit of skinny jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a black cardigan. “You’re way overdressed.”

“I’ll have to remember to change before dinner then.”

“Probably a good idea. We kind of do this thing where we try to eat all the food and not leave any leftovers—like, at all.”

“Are you telling me I can eat to my heart’s content and not have to feel embarrassed about loading my plate over and over again?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“I love this family.”

He snorts and pulls me through the closed double doors.

Sitting inside what I assume is their “real” living room is his father, and he shoots off the couch the moment we walk in.

I was right—Zach’s dad is a total hottie.

I elbow Zach and quietly say, “Told ya he was smokin’.”

“Stop. It.”

“Zach, my boy, come here.”

His dad folds him into a big hug, the two holding on to each other for a moment. I won’t lie, my heart does a little flippy thing watching them together.

They pull apart and Mr. Hastings turns my way.

“Delia, it’s lovely to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Hastings.”

“No, no, Jack is fine.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re Jack, and…”

“She’s Rose.” He grins, and he has the same dimple his son does. “Yeah. It’s kind of a funny story.”

“Not this again. He loves it when people connect the dots,” Rose hollers from the kitchen.

“What, babe? It’s a good story!”

Rose appears in the doorway and leans up against it, eyeing her husband. “Go ahead—I know you’re dying to.”

“So,” Jack starts, “we met in grief counseling.”

“That, uh, sounds…”

“Utterly heartbreaking?” Rose offers. “I know, sweetie.”

“So there I was, sitting in the chair my parents forced me into. I was a young twenty-something widower and couldn’t even haul my ass into the shower more than once a week. I needed therapy, so my family stepped in.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I mutter. “Both of your losses.”

Rose holds her hand to her heart and Jack nods, acknowledging my sentiment.

“It was my third week, her first day. As usual, we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves, explain why we were there. I stood in front of the mic and—”

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