She grabs his hand, and it completely squashes the little seed of disappointment that would have grown about dinner being ready — already. It just feels so fast, like they didn't get enough time. He's starting to realize Blue has this tendency to quite literally pull him out of bad situations, bad feelings, bad anything. She just grabs him by the hand and declares to the universe that things are going to be good, and then they are.
It's incredible.
He's already formatting the politest way to ask if she remembered to call when Maura speaks up, and there's a subtle softening of his shoulders to give away the fact that she hit the nail on the head.
"Thank you," diligently polite, an ingrained habit. He takes his cues from Blue about where and when to sit, emulating her whether or not realizes he needs the guidance. It's not his first loud, crowded family meal. That happens semi-nightly, with fewer adults and more children. This one is full of strangers, though — what's more, they're strangers that matter now that they're... best-friend-in-law... family-in-law? What's the word for it? In any case, he can not screw this up. He does his best to be quiet, unobtrusive, to pick up on the unwritten rules of the people around him as the chaos organizes itself somewhat at the table.
By 300 Fox Way measures, it is a quiet dinner. There are more chairs around the wide kitchen table than there are people, a stack of plates in the middle to allow everyone to choose their own seat. Without pause, Blue tugs Jack with her to a set of chairs on the far end of the table, only letting go of his hand so she can pull one of them out and sit down. Without realizing, she leaves no room for second guessing where he goes: by her side.
She grabs two plates from the pile, setting one in front of him and one in front of herself. On the other end of the table, the pale whisp of a woman fills glasses, not a single one like the other, with water, handing them to Orla who hands them down the line.
If Jack let Blue in on his thoughts, she'd solve his little linguistic conundrum. They're family. No quantifiers. No conditions. No exceptions. Persephone shares not an ounce of blood with Calla, and Calla not a drop with Blue or Maura. But they're no less family for it. Jack isn't either.
"Everyone," Maura says, reaching for Orla's plate and filling it with a heaping serving of casserole, "this is Jack. Blue's best friend."
Variations of hello Jack and nice to meet you echo around the table. Blue gives Jack a beaming and pride look. Underneath her table, her hand finds his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm Jimi," the woman next to Orla tells Jack, "Orla's mom."
"You've already met Orla," Blue says with begrudging politeness born out of her mother's presence, letting go of Jack's hand to grab them both forks from the pile on the middle of the table.
"My name is Persephone," the pale woman tells him, her voice whispy and thin. She's so unassuming, even sitting across from her, it's easy to forget her presence.
"She's writing a thesis," Blue tells Jack under her breath. Like that's the most important thing to know about Persephone.
"Calla will join us later," Maura says, handing Jack's plate back to him with a heaping helping of casserole. "She's doing a reading."
"That old goat must be paying well for her to do a house call," Jimi notes, filling the empty space on her plate with mixed greens. She hands the wooden salad bowl over to Orla who adds slightly less greens to her plate.
Maura gives Jimi a look over the salad bowl, giving herself a generous helping before passing it to her left to Jack.
"Eat as much or as little as you want, Jack," she says kindly.
Next to him, Blue takes the salad bowl, setting it down in the middle of the table without adding any to her plate. Maura's eyes shift between her and the bowl before settling on her.
"Would you like some salad, Blue?" Maura asks pointedly.
Blue heaves a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes, but she reaches for the bowl again, adding a minuscule amount of salad to her plate.
The casserole is warm and filling. The kind of food to feed many mouths on a dime. There's not much to the salad, but it's fresh and plentiful. Blue eats five resentful forkfuls of greens. The conversation flows freely, at least two conversations going on at the same time, and everyone around the table making an effort to pull Jack into their conversational strand.
Towards the end of it, when almost all plates have emptied, the front door crashes open and closed.
"Remind me to never make another house call!" Calla's voice precedes her into the kitchen like lightning before thunder. She stamps into the kitchen with a jangle of the gold coin adorned scarf that's tied around her hips.
"Told you," Jimi says.
Calla huffs, pausing to reaching past Blue and grab the last plate from the middle of the table. While she's there, she presses a quick and affectionate kiss against the top of Blue's head.
"No one likes a know-it-all," she tells Jimi, settling on the chair between Jack and Maura. Like she hasn't noticed him before, her full attention turns to him as she holds her empty plate out to Maura to fill. "The infamous Jack, I presume?"
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It's incredible.
He's already formatting the politest way to ask if she remembered to call when Maura speaks up, and there's a subtle softening of his shoulders to give away the fact that she hit the nail on the head.
"Thank you," diligently polite, an ingrained habit. He takes his cues from Blue about where and when to sit, emulating her whether or not realizes he needs the guidance. It's not his first loud, crowded family meal. That happens semi-nightly, with fewer adults and more children. This one is full of strangers, though — what's more, they're strangers that matter now that they're... best-friend-in-law... family-in-law? What's the word for it? In any case, he can not screw this up. He does his best to be quiet, unobtrusive, to pick up on the unwritten rules of the people around him as the chaos organizes itself somewhat at the table.
no subject
She grabs two plates from the pile, setting one in front of him and one in front of herself. On the other end of the table, the pale whisp of a woman fills glasses, not a single one like the other, with water, handing them to Orla who hands them down the line.
If Jack let Blue in on his thoughts, she'd solve his little linguistic conundrum. They're family. No quantifiers. No conditions. No exceptions. Persephone shares not an ounce of blood with Calla, and Calla not a drop with Blue or Maura. But they're no less family for it. Jack isn't either.
"Everyone," Maura says, reaching for Orla's plate and filling it with a heaping serving of casserole, "this is Jack. Blue's best friend."
Variations of hello Jack and nice to meet you echo around the table. Blue gives Jack a beaming and pride look. Underneath her table, her hand finds his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm Jimi," the woman next to Orla tells Jack, "Orla's mom."
"You've already met Orla," Blue says with begrudging politeness born out of her mother's presence, letting go of Jack's hand to grab them both forks from the pile on the middle of the table.
"My name is Persephone," the pale woman tells him, her voice whispy and thin. She's so unassuming, even sitting across from her, it's easy to forget her presence.
"She's writing a thesis," Blue tells Jack under her breath. Like that's the most important thing to know about Persephone.
"Calla will join us later," Maura says, handing Jack's plate back to him with a heaping helping of casserole. "She's doing a reading."
"That old goat must be paying well for her to do a house call," Jimi notes, filling the empty space on her plate with mixed greens. She hands the wooden salad bowl over to Orla who adds slightly less greens to her plate.
Maura gives Jimi a look over the salad bowl, giving herself a generous helping before passing it to her left to Jack.
"Eat as much or as little as you want, Jack," she says kindly.
Next to him, Blue takes the salad bowl, setting it down in the middle of the table without adding any to her plate. Maura's eyes shift between her and the bowl before settling on her.
"Would you like some salad, Blue?" Maura asks pointedly.
Blue heaves a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes, but she reaches for the bowl again, adding a minuscule amount of salad to her plate.
The casserole is warm and filling. The kind of food to feed many mouths on a dime. There's not much to the salad, but it's fresh and plentiful. Blue eats five resentful forkfuls of greens. The conversation flows freely, at least two conversations going on at the same time, and everyone around the table making an effort to pull Jack into their conversational strand.
Towards the end of it, when almost all plates have emptied, the front door crashes open and closed.
"Remind me to never make another house call!" Calla's voice precedes her into the kitchen like lightning before thunder. She stamps into the kitchen with a jangle of the gold coin adorned scarf that's tied around her hips.
"Told you," Jimi says.
Calla huffs, pausing to reaching past Blue and grab the last plate from the middle of the table. While she's there, she presses a quick and affectionate kiss against the top of Blue's head.
"No one likes a know-it-all," she tells Jimi, settling on the chair between Jack and Maura. Like she hasn't noticed him before, her full attention turns to him as she holds her empty plate out to Maura to fill. "The infamous Jack, I presume?"