#Superfan (10 page)

“Where’d you think I came up with his nickname? On a scale from zero to ten …”

“Honey, that boy is a ten.” Mom stops preening long enough to help me fill the rest of the serving bowls. “Is he good to you?”

Her question doesn’t leave me breathless, but my response does. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

In a perfect world my mother would embrace me and whisper, “That’s all that matters.” She would kiss my cheek and we would share a weepy smile before serving my family and new boyfriend lunch.

But this isn’t a perfect world.

“Is he college educated?” Mom picks up a bowl of butterbeans and heads for the dining room door, expecting me to follow.

And dammit, I do.

“As a matter of fact he is.”
Don’t ask me his major, don’t ask me his major.
“Are you sure there’s enough room for all this food?”

“Oh, I’m sure there is.” Mom scans the table. “Put the fried chicken right in the center there. Lord, if I’d known you were bringing company I would have made a cake.”

“He loves chocolate,” I say. “You know, just an FYI for next time.”

“Next time.” Mom smiles. “So there’ll be a next time?”

“Maybe? Who knows. Things are still new between us.”

The set of her neck tells me she’s disappointed with my vague response. She follows me into the kitchen where we gather the rest of the dishes and deliver them to the table. Mom pops her head into the den, calling for the family to join us.

Eight sits in the chair to my right, ignoring the pestering way I stare at him. I can’t help it. I’m searching for something: an irritated grimace, a disgusted frown. Anything hinting at how he was treated while I helped my mother bring the dishes to the table, but he’s as still and silent as a mountain.

Dad says grace and the rotation of bowls and trays begins.

Tasha tells us a story of Noah shedding his clothes at Target. The vibration of my father’s laughter flows through his body to his arms resting on the table, sending the table quivering. I stare at him and Tasha, remembering how accepting he was when Wes brought her home for the first time. A little ball of meanness builds in the pit of my belly. I glare at Tasha over the rim of my glass.

“You okay?”

Eight’s hand is warm on my thigh. I jerk at the touch, at the prickles of sensation creeping up my legs. Tea sloshes over the edge of my glass.

“Alex,” Mom scolds, pointing at my cloth napkin. “Sop up that mess before it pours over the side and ruins your pretty dress.”

Pretty dress, college education, these are the things she worries about.

I soak up the mess with my napkin while Mom fetches me a new one. Once the table is clean, we tuck ourselves into our food.

There’s no dignified way to eat fried chicken, which is probably one reason people don’t take their first dates to eat fried chicken. I realize this after catching Eight watch me mop grease from my chin.

He leans to the side, whispering in my ear, “Damn, you look sexy.”

I’m not a blusher. Don’t get embarrassed too easily. But something about Eight touching my leg underneath the table and whispering my sexiness while my family gapes at us unnerves me, making me blush like a schoolgirl.

Dad clears his throat, and my smile falls away. I hope he doesn’t ask Eight why he’s not eating meat. Not sure how the whole “vegetarian” thing would go over in my family. Probably worse than my mom previously believing I was a lesbian.

Dad scoops up the last of his creamed corn and pushes his plate away. “So, Bradley, tell us about yourself.”

Oh God. Here we go.

“Brantley,” I correct. Hell, I learned his name the same time my father did, but at least I can still remember it. “His name is Brantley.”

“Brantley, right.” Dad smiles over the cup of coffee Mom serves him. She takes his plate away and hurries to the kitchen and back. “Are you a college educated man, Brantley?”

“Yes, sir, I am. Graduated top of my class.” Eight relaxes in his chair. The only sign of his anxiety is the tap of his fingers on my thigh.

Dad blots his mouth with his napkin. “And what college did you attend?”

“The American Academy of Dramatic Arts.”

My fork makes a loud clanging sound as I drop it in shock. I pick it up and avoid the curious stares, pretending to be hella interested in my mashed potatoes.

“You’re an actor?” Tasha asks, and thank God she does. Because I almost asked the question myself, which would surely key my family in to the fact I know next to nothing about the man running his hand up my thigh.

“I played a few small roles when I first graduated.” Eight tucks into his food again, moaning around the prongs of his fork. “This is delicious Mrs. Hannah.”

“Caroline,” she corrects. “Please, call me Caroline.”

“And how long ago did you graduate?” Dad takes a long pull from his mug.

“A few years ago. I’m currently on a … hiatus, so to speak.”

Dad leans on the table, his bulky frame shaking the wood under his weight. “In other words, you’re jobless?”

“Percy,” Mom scolds. “That’s none of our business.” But even she appears dejected. She has the whole “why did Alexa bring this bum to lunch with her” kind of look on her face.

“Do you travel to Hollywood a lot?” Tasha bounces a whiney Noah on her knee, her eyes sparkling dreamily, as though she imagines a life filled with movie stars and red carpets, no streaking, noisy toddlers in sight.

“Not a lot.” Eight spears a few peas onto his fork. “I lead a rather boring life. It’s not as glamorous as you’d think.”

Tasha sinks back in her chair, a dejected expression on her face. Noah wiggles his way out of her lap and patters around the table until he’s standing next to me.

I scoop him up and finger feed him the rest of my butterbeans. I side-eye Eight, trying to imagine him as a small-role actor or an extra, but I can’t conjure the image. He’s too outgoing, too friendly, too gorgeous to stand in the back of any room. Noah regains my attention with a wave of his hand in my face, pushing my hair aside. His stubby fingers bump against the bruise at my hairline, and I cringe from the sting.

Dad polishes off his coffee and sets it aside. His lips are drawn in a long, harsh line. “My daughter has a cut on her forehead, and you have injuries on your hands.”

All eyes hone in on my cut and Eight’s knuckles. Wes and Dad exchange a dark glance. Mom’s face pales.

“Alex, I think we need to step outside and have a little chat,” Wes says.

“What? Why?” Realization smacks me harder than Noah’s hand batting at the table wanting more beans. “Oh, Lord. You don’t think—”

Dad’s stare at Eight is paralyzing. “You been hitting my daughter?”

Eight drops his fork, his eyes bulging. “Sir?”

“Surely you don’t think he hit me,” I say.

“And why wouldn’t I assume that, Alexa? You’ve never made the best decisions in your life. Why should dating be any different?”

If steam could blow out my ears it would. “Bad decisions meaning dropping out of school? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. You’re twenty-four years old. You’ve still got time to finish college and find a decent young man with a job.”

“Did you see his car, Percy?” Tasha says, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. “The boy ain’t hurtin’ for money.”

Eight’s undeterred by the conversation around him. His grasp on my thigh grows tighter. “I’d never hurt your daughter, sir. I care about Alexa.”

A dumb smile worms its way across my face. Dad scowls, throws his napkin on the table, and leans back in his chair.

“How long have the two of you been dating?” Mom asks.

“Actually, this is our first official date.” Noah climbs off my lap and toddles away. “Thanks for ruining it for us.”

The room is silent aside from Noah babbling at his mother. Tasha picks him up and wipes the slobber from his mouth. The longer the silence the angrier I get. Eight professed how much he cares about me and I can’t even enjoy it. Not under Percy Hannah’s relentless stare. I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but Eight interrupts me.

“Mr. Hannah, have you ever heard of Jamil Warrent?”

Dad furrows his brow. “No.”

“How about KayCee Clemmons? Sage Sweeney?”

Dad shakes his head. “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“They’re authors. Brilliant authors. Their books are on display in bookstores all over the world. And your daughter designs their covers, but they’re not just covers, Mr. Hannah. They’re beautiful works of art. Your daughter is an artist. An incredibly talented artist. You should be proud of your daughter, sir. I know I am.”

How does he know all this? Has he been looking up my work?

Warmth spreads over my body. The fact that this guy’s taken the time to research my work does funny things to my belly.

For a moment, Dad appears stunned. But then his fingers ball into fists on the table, and that weird, wiggly vein on his temple bulges and throbs. “Who are you to tell me how to feel about my daughter?”

Eight shakes his head. “I’m nobody important, sir. Just a guy who cares about your daughter.”

I place my hand on Eight’s, curling my fingers around his. “Let’s go.”

Mom wrings her hands. “Go? So soon? We haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving. We haven’t even had dessert.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

Mom’s hand reaches for me as I pass by, a befuddled Eight not far behind. “Alex, sweetie. Come back. Your daddy’s just overprotective of you. You know this.”

I pause near the head of the table, looking down at my father who stares straight ahead. “The cut is from a wreck I was involved in Friday night.” Someone gasps behind me, but I don’t look to see who. “Eight picked me up, brought me home, and took care of me. This
bum
made sure I didn’t slip into a coma after I slammed my head against the steering wheel.”

Okay, I’m being a little dramatic with the coma comment, but Dad’s really pissed me off. The sternness of my father’s face wavers, and the longer I stare at him the older he appears. Older and weary. I touch his shoulder, give it a little squeeze, and walk out of the dining room.

We bump into a very pregnant Evie outside.

Evie is short like me, but with a wide backside like our mother. The added baby weight makes her waddle like a duck up the walkway.

“Great, I missed lunch again, didn’t I?” Evie groans, one hand on her belly and one hand on her lower back. “This acid reflux is killing me, Al. Word to the wise, don’t get pregnant. Like, ever. Never ever. Unless you don’t mind living nine months without the use of your esophagus, and periods of stress incontinence—oh, who’s this?” Evie blinks and offers her hand to Eight. “Evie Hannah-Ryan. Please excuse my rambling. I’ve got a bad case of the baby brain.”

“She’s like this all the time. Don’t let the baby brain excuse fool you,” I tease.

“Nice to meet you, Evie. I’m Brantley.”

Evie looks smitten under his dazzling smile. “You’re leaving? So soon?”

“Dad’s been playing the part of protective papa bear,” I explain. “Hey, where’s Russ?”

“Work.” Evie shifts from one foot to the other. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’d love to stay and chat, but don’t wanna mess up your first impression of me by peeing on myself.”

Evie waves and waddles away. “I’ll get Daddy straightened out. See you in a few weeks. For dinner. Definitely dinner.” She mutters something about pork roast and beans as she climbs the porch steps and enters the house.

“So, that was my little sister.”

Eight pulls out his keys and unlocks the car. “I see the family resemblance.”

“Really? I know we’re both short, but otherwise—”

Eight laughs. “I meant your quirky personality. It’s refreshing.”

We climb into the car. “You think our personalities are refreshing?”

“Yeah, I felt like shit walking out of your parents’ house. Then she shows up and lightens the mood.”

He cranks the car and shifts into reverse, but doesn’t move. Dad walks out on the porch, staring us down. Mom joins him, her gums flapping nonstop.

“I’m sorry for the way he reacted to meeting you. I knew he’d be tough, but never thought he’d be outright rude.”

“You’re his daughter. He has a right to be concerned.” Eight nods at my father and backs out of the drive. I stare at my kinda-boyfriend, baffled.

“You’re taking up for him.”

Eight’s quiet for a moment. Contemplative. “Yeah, I guess I am. I’m trying to imagine how I’ll feel when I have a kid and she brings home a guy for the first time.”

“When you have a kid? Not if?”

Eight’s gaze briefly leaves the road to meet mine. “Unless you’re opposed to us having kids. I guess that’s a subject we’ll need to discuss.”

Eight snickers at my astonished gaze. I bat at his hand, but he takes mine anyway.

“Quit being flirty.”

“It’s cute the way you think I’m being flirty when I’m being outright serious.”

A cool chill from the window I cracked earlier fills the car, but the warmth I feel inside wards it off.