Free The Jock and the Fat Chick by Nicole Winters

answer comes out like a question, and I think I just blew my never-had-tea-before cover.
    “Dad? Tea? Double milk?”
    “Yes, darling.”
    Maria returns with plates and cutlery. On the top dish sits the package tied with string that she’d brought home. She unties the knot and folds back the cardboard flaps. I stare at her creation: all round and golden brown, the top covered with small crumbly things drizzled in icing sugar.
    “You made this?” I ask.
    René and Maria chuckle, and I realize I’ve just stuck my big foot into my big mouth. I bet Claire’s mom is famous for her cakes, and I just sounded stunned that her mom could bake.
    Claire returns with four cups and a teapot on a tray. “This tea is a house blend from Mom’s bakery. She owns Lemons and Cream on Spenser Street.”
    “I know that place,” I say. “I bought a cupcake there once, for my mother on Mother’s Day. She really liked it.”
    Maria smiles and cuts me a generous slice, and I tryto recall the last time I ate something sweet. Technically, I eat dessert-like food all day with the protein bars, gels, and drinks, but this is the real thing. I wait until everyone has a piece and René says, “Bon appétit,” before taking a bite. I taste sugar and pumpkin, or something like that. It reminds me of a perfect fall day, sitting in the backyard, soaking up the late-day sun with Buddy by my side. There’s no hint of coffee flavor, though, so I ask, “Am I supposed to taste coffee in this?”
    Everyone smiles, and Maria good-naturedly says, “No-no, coffee cake is just what you call a cake you eat with a cup of coffee.”
    Man, I’m a foodie dud. I make an effort to chew more slowly this time, matching pace with the Riels, who seem to eat from pure enjoyment rather than snarfing down food for fuel. I don’t know if they planned it this way, but the tea goes great with it. Wait, I’m sure they planned it this way. I bet nothing they make is just slapped together, that there’s a conscious effort to how everything blends.
    “I love the balance between the tart apples and the pumpkin, Mom,” Claire says.
    I ask Maria what she calls it.
    “Autumn Harvest Crumble.”
    “It’s really good,” I say, and wish I could say more about it, like how the flavors balance or meld or whatever you say to a chef or a baker to show them you appreciate their work.
    After dessert I insist on helping by clearing the table. René grabs the remote from the kitchen counter, and soon the kitchen fills with the same upbeat music. Claire fills the sink with soapy water, and I realize they’re not using their dishwasher. Claire washes, her mom dries, and René puts away leftovers. He hums a little before singing the song in French. He then glides to Maria’s side and takes the dish towel from her hand so he can dance with her. I stand by the island, watching them sway to the music, both smiling at each other. Claire’s folks are kind of cool.
    When it’s time for me to head home, René offers a firm handshake and says it’s been a pleasure to meet me and that he hopes to see me again. Maria kisses me on both cheeks, and this time I’m not as stiff when she does it, but I’m still unsure what to do in return. Do I air-kiss someone’s wife? Luckily, her parents head into the kitchen, leaving Claire and me alone.
    Claire opens the front door, and the alarm chirps as brisk night air floods the foyer. I head outside, taking a step down before turning around, so she’s at chin height again. Although I’ve spent the last few hours with her parents, I feel like I’ve just been on a date. Claire smiles, and my heart thump-smashes. I shoulder my backpack and shove my hands deep into my pockets, because they threaten to morph into goalie gloves again. Are we going to kiss? Should I kiss her? I mean, we almost did earlier, or did I just thinkthat we almost did?
    “Thanks for coming over,” she says. “I guess we didn’t get around to the beef Wellington part, huh?