Good Luck, Fatty

home improvement project to tack on to the ever-expanding to-do list), but Tom is welcome anyway.
    He drags the screen door shut and belatedly trails me into the living room, where Denise hunches over a rickety metal tray table (one of Gramp’s rusty-around-the-edges garage sale finds) dropping change into a coin sorter and rolling the cash into neat stacks. A quick glance reveals that she’s scrounged up twenty-seven dollars.
    For a second I feel embarrassed about Tom seeing how poor we are, but then I just hope Denise hasn’t bought me anything for my birthday. The cake is more than enough.
    Denise spots me out of the corner of her eye and says, “ There’s the birthday girl.” Her gaze lingers on Tom as she awaits an introduction.
    “It smells delicious in here,” I say. Bluntly I add, “Where’s the cake?” I’d expected to find it on the kitchen table as we passed, but the confection was suspiciously absent.
    Denise presses a pile of nickels into a paper roll. “In the fridge. I thought we’d save it until Orv gets home,” she says. “But now that you’ve got company…”
    “Oh, this is Tom,” I say with a nonchalant wave. “He’s helping me train for the Yo-Yo.” I draw a quick breath. “Tom, this is my…” I stop myself from introducing Denise as my mother and puzzle through her relation to me. “…my soon-to-be cousin-in-law? She’s marrying my cousin, Orv.”
    “Nice to meet you,” says Tom.
    “My pleasure.”
    I can see Denise’s point about the cake, but it is my birthday. And I doubt Tom’s going to stick around for another three hours just to get a taste. “I don’t think I can wait,” I say, giving Denise a begging/pouting face, the way dogs sometimes do. “Mind if we cut a couple of slices now?”
    She pinches the ends of the nickel roll and adds it to the stack. “Well, if you must,” she says with a shrug and a sly smile, “but make sure you get me a piece too.”
    “Aye-aye,” I promise with a goofy salute.
    Tom and I head back to the kitchen, which amounts to retracing six or seven steps, since this house is so compact. I shimmy the cake out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter amidst the scent of bleach. (Denise must have gone on a cleaning binge once she finished baking.)
    “Need any help?” Tom asks as I stare hopelessly into the silverware drawer for an appropriate knife.
    “I don’t think so,” I reply, my eyes pinching together in concentration. I shuffle through the mixed-up forks and spoons until I come across a stubby, flat-bladed Japanese knife Orv bought off some late-night infomercial. “Bingo,” I say with a bit too much glee.
    I draw the knife out and pass it to Tom, who looks surprised. “You want me to do it?” he asks.
    I have a bad history with sharp objects. “Yup,” I say. I point out the section I’d like him to carve, which features a haphazard mound of rainbow sprinkles. He divides it into three roughly equal parts and then flops the pieces onto the plates I’ve got on standby. Without me having to ask, he delivers a slice to Denise in the living room.
    Instead of sitting opposite me when he returns, Tom takes the chair at my side, our thighs rubbing and knees knocking as we chew. “I like your house,” he tells me earnestly, his cake clinging frosting-side down to his plate. “It’s…uh…homey.”
    This comment could be taken as a compliment or an insult, but there’s not a smidge of ill will in Tom’s delivery. “I know,” I say, accepting his words at face value. I glance around and realize that Gramp’s house is homey, in the best sort of way.
    We finish our cake, me inhaling every last grain of frosting (including a triple lick of the fork, just to be on the safe side) and Tom leaving a two-inch gob of the sticky stuff adhered to his plate, a situation I am too self-conscious to correct. (It appears I do have some limits when it comes to food, after all.)
    “I think Denise fell asleep,” I whisper, straining to hear the soft humming of her snore in the not-so-distant distance. I bring a finger to my lips and make a shhh sound, then take Tom’s hand. “Let’s go to my room.”
    Tom’s eyes light up. Instead of answering, he nods, tightens his fingers around mine. Warily we slink down the hall, my suspicions verified with a sideways glance into the living room, where I spot Denise’s petite frame tucked against the arm of the couch.
    I shut my bedroom door with due caution and invite Tom