spaghetti for Haley. After a healthy dose of grated cheese was applied over both their plates, Stephen sliced half his lasagna into small pieces, relishing the aroma of meat, marinara sauce, cheese, and Italian herbs. He looked up and locked eyes with Haley again.
“What?”
“Do you always do that?”
“What?”
“That.” She waved her fork at his plate. “Cut your food up before you eat it.”
“Yeah. It’s somewhat grade school-ish, I know. Why?”
“Sam did that, too. He also liked to dip his potato chips in—”
“Ketchup. We started doing that when we were kids. Drove our mom crazy.”
Haley turned her attention back to her meal. “For his birthday last year, I bought him some of those ketchup-flavored potato chips. He told me they weren’t as good as dipping chips in the real stuff.”
“He was right. Our parents said we had our own personal language when we were toddlers—no one else understood us.”
“Huh.” Haley seemed to file away the information. “How long have you had your car?”
“The Mustang? I bought it a couple of months ago.” Back when he thought he was headed for a promotion—not volunteering for a pink slip. “It’s my dream car.”
“Sam’s, too. He used to talk about winning the lottery and buying a ’65 or ’66 Mustang.”
“That was always the plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides Marvel comics, my dad loves cars. Sam and I used to read his automotive magazines. We decided Mustangs were the coolest cars, so we were both going to get one. Sam wanted—”
“A black one.”
“Yep. I said the only color for a Mustang was red.”
“You didn’t change your mind.”
“Nope. So, Sam never got his Mustang?”
“He rode a Harley. The closest he got to a Mustang was the Christmas ornament I gave him the first year we were married.”
“I bet he loved that.”
“I think so. He was deployed at the time, so I didn’t get to see him open it.”
“Was Sam excited about becoming a father?”
Haley’s eyes searched the restaurant as if looking for an answer. His brother had wanted a family, right? Not that he could ask that question out loud.
“We’d talked about starting a family.”
“When are you due?”
“The first week in April—the fifth.”
Silence.
What was there to say? They were two strangers, eating a meal together, talking about a man they both knew. But Stephen’s memories of Sam were frozen in time. For him, Sam was forever a teenager, walking out the door—away from all their plans—to go sign on the dotted line and find his future in the army. Haley’s Sam was a grown man. A soldier. The father of her unborn child.
“I’m not sure what you want from me.”
Haley decided she might as well be honest with Sam’s brother—to a point. Her memories of Sam were few, a montage that started and stopped whenever months of deployments interrupted their marriage. And now Stephen wanted her to put her relationship with Sam on display so that somehow he could feel closer to his brother. Were there enough memories of Sam to create an image of a father for their son? There was no way she could make up for the years Stephen had lived apart from his twin brother. Was that even her responsibility?
“I don’t know if Sam would want me to have dinner with you, much less talk with you.” She sipped her lemon-lime soda, the glass cool against her hand. “Maybe I’m not the one you should be talking to. I still think you should ask your mother questions about Sam.”
She pushed away the plate of tepid pasta, her appetite gone. She’d have the waiter box it up so she could take it home. She’d be hungry later—the baby guaranteed that.
“My mother and I . . . We don’t talk often.” Stephen seemed to be weighing his words. “She believes I chose my father over her after the divorce—and when my father remarried.”
“Did you?”
“No. I just didn’t not choose my dad’s new wife.” Now it was Stephen’s turn
“What?”
“Do you always do that?”
“What?”
“That.” She waved her fork at his plate. “Cut your food up before you eat it.”
“Yeah. It’s somewhat grade school-ish, I know. Why?”
“Sam did that, too. He also liked to dip his potato chips in—”
“Ketchup. We started doing that when we were kids. Drove our mom crazy.”
Haley turned her attention back to her meal. “For his birthday last year, I bought him some of those ketchup-flavored potato chips. He told me they weren’t as good as dipping chips in the real stuff.”
“He was right. Our parents said we had our own personal language when we were toddlers—no one else understood us.”
“Huh.” Haley seemed to file away the information. “How long have you had your car?”
“The Mustang? I bought it a couple of months ago.” Back when he thought he was headed for a promotion—not volunteering for a pink slip. “It’s my dream car.”
“Sam’s, too. He used to talk about winning the lottery and buying a ’65 or ’66 Mustang.”
“That was always the plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides Marvel comics, my dad loves cars. Sam and I used to read his automotive magazines. We decided Mustangs were the coolest cars, so we were both going to get one. Sam wanted—”
“A black one.”
“Yep. I said the only color for a Mustang was red.”
“You didn’t change your mind.”
“Nope. So, Sam never got his Mustang?”
“He rode a Harley. The closest he got to a Mustang was the Christmas ornament I gave him the first year we were married.”
“I bet he loved that.”
“I think so. He was deployed at the time, so I didn’t get to see him open it.”
“Was Sam excited about becoming a father?”
Haley’s eyes searched the restaurant as if looking for an answer. His brother had wanted a family, right? Not that he could ask that question out loud.
“We’d talked about starting a family.”
“When are you due?”
“The first week in April—the fifth.”
Silence.
What was there to say? They were two strangers, eating a meal together, talking about a man they both knew. But Stephen’s memories of Sam were frozen in time. For him, Sam was forever a teenager, walking out the door—away from all their plans—to go sign on the dotted line and find his future in the army. Haley’s Sam was a grown man. A soldier. The father of her unborn child.
“I’m not sure what you want from me.”
Haley decided she might as well be honest with Sam’s brother—to a point. Her memories of Sam were few, a montage that started and stopped whenever months of deployments interrupted their marriage. And now Stephen wanted her to put her relationship with Sam on display so that somehow he could feel closer to his brother. Were there enough memories of Sam to create an image of a father for their son? There was no way she could make up for the years Stephen had lived apart from his twin brother. Was that even her responsibility?
“I don’t know if Sam would want me to have dinner with you, much less talk with you.” She sipped her lemon-lime soda, the glass cool against her hand. “Maybe I’m not the one you should be talking to. I still think you should ask your mother questions about Sam.”
She pushed away the plate of tepid pasta, her appetite gone. She’d have the waiter box it up so she could take it home. She’d be hungry later—the baby guaranteed that.
“My mother and I . . . We don’t talk often.” Stephen seemed to be weighing his words. “She believes I chose my father over her after the divorce—and when my father remarried.”
“Did you?”
“No. I just didn’t not choose my dad’s new wife.” Now it was Stephen’s turn
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