Good Luck, Fatty

this dinner that the lack of mewing didn’t even register.
    Until now.
    I give a couple of quick calls for Buttercup while popping the top off a can of cat food and spooning a generous portion into his dish.
    He must be outside, I think, racking my brain for the last time I saw him (was it this morning?).
    I wanted Buttercup to be an indoor cat, so I’d always know where he was. But Orv said, at Buttercup’s age, with his history of meandering, it’d be nearly impossible to rein him in (which turned out to be truer than anyone knew, since every time that door cracks open even an inch, the sneak of a cat manages to slip out).
    I dump Buttercup’s filmy old water and give him a new drink, just in case he decides to show his sweet, whiskered face tonight.
    When I spin back around from the sink, I notice headlights streaming across Gramp’s driveway.
    I shouldn’t be nervous (I mean, I’ve known Tom just about forever), but try telling that to my jittery heart, which suddenly seems to think my chest cavity is one of those bouncy houses at a rich kid’s birthday party.
    “Coming!” I yell toward the door, even though I’m not sure Tom has knocked. I straighten my abstract-patterned blouse (another nod to the ‘80s) and remind myself to practice good posture, like those girls in the charm school videos with books balanced on their heads.
    There is a gentle rap as I swing the door open. “Hey,” Tom says with a smile. He throws a wave over his shoulder at his father, who is already backing that grungy work truck into the street.
    I jiggle the door shut behind us and ask, “You’re hungry, right?” (He’d better be, after everything I’ve done to make this night happen.)
    He drops his hoodie over a kitchen chair, revealing a black button-down that increases his hotness quotient by a factor of five, at least. “Famished,” he says.
    I get the weirdest feeling right then, like I’ve caught a glimpse into a possible future, like Tom has just schlepped in from a hard day at the office and, like a good Susie Homemaker, I’ve got a piping hot meal awaiting him.
    For some reason, I shudder.
    I like Tom. Maybe even love him. And I wouldn’t mind cooking dinner for him now and then, just not every night. And not at the expense of my dignity.
    The table is set with Gramp’s best china (meaning two plates that actually match, although they’ve both got tiny chips out of the edges) and a pair of heavy sapphire blue (Denise’s favorite color) drinking glasses. I’ve also scrounged up all the candles in the house (six tea lights, which I’ve arranged in a floral pattern on a stoneware dish, two tapers that are so tall I had to stand them up in one of Denise’s freebie vases from Welcome Home, and, to complete the look, a gingerbread-scented pillar that’s been kicking around the bathroom for a year or two but has yet to meet a lighter or a match).
    Tom takes Orv’s seat at the table, and I plate the linguine, slop some sauce and a couple of meatballs on top, then smother it all with freshly grated parmesan cheese (ooh-la-la!).
    “Dinner is served,” I proclaim as I slide the plates across the table.
    Tom just stares at his food. “I thought you were making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese,” he says, his tone astonished and confused.
    I sit across from him and unroll my silverware. (We don’t own any froufrou napkins, so I substituted the embroidered fingertip towels Denise bought—and never used—for guests.) “I’m not that lame,” I say, suppressing an eye roll. “I can cook a little.”
    Somehow he looks unconvinced. “Who taught you?”
    “Nobody, really,” I say with a light shrug. “But I’ve got my grandmother’s recipes.”
    He nods, starts sawing through one of the meat-boulders. (They’re not overcooked, are they?) “My mother used to bake,” he says. “Chocolate chip cookies, apple pie, banana bread… She wasn’t big on regular meals, though. We ate a lot of takeout.”
    I wish he’d say something—anything!—about that meatball, which is now rocking back and forth in his mouth. “Do you like Italian food?” it dawns on me to ask. Maybe that’ll drag a comment out of him.
    He swallows, licks a trail of sauce from the corner of his mouth (a mouth I suddenly can’t stop fantasizing about; a mouth that could do very pleasurable things to me, if only I’d let it). “Oh, yeah,” he assures me. “I live on pasta.” He makes penetrating eye contact with me, sways his fork