Page 131 of The Man I Hate

Pratt sauntered toward the kitchen island. “Go to hell, Old Man.” He glanced over his shoulder as he passed the table. “Evening, Marge.”

“Good evening, Gordon.”

Pratt fixed a plate and meandered to the other side of the table. “I like your top, Marge,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “Purple’s my favorite color.”

Marge was wearing a pair of green pants, white open-toed sandals, and a purple short-sleeved top. As always, she looked adorable.

She adjusted herself in her seat and offered Pratt a grin. “Thank you, Gordon.”

“Lasagna’s good as fuck, Annie,” Pratt muttered.

“Gordon Pratt!” Marge hissed. “Not at the dinner table, please.”

Pratt lowered his head in shame. “Sorry, Marge.”

We finished our dinner, discussing the changes we’d seen, the changes we expected to see as everyone implemented the new recommendations from the Center for Disease Control, and what we hoped the future held.

When everyone was done, Pratt and Braxton went to the garage while Marge and I served the tiramisu.

“I’ll go get the dipshits,” Hap said, leaning over my shoulder to get a look at the size of ice cream he was being served. “Give me one more scoop, just like that one.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “You’ll have to run an extra mile.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he said. “This is a special night.”

“Is it?”

“Last Sunday dinner,” he said, looking around the room. “Here, anyway.”

I gave him another scoop of ice cream. The other bowls seemed lop-sided. After deciding everyone needed 2 scoops of ice cream, Marge and I carried the bowls to the table.

When the men returned, everyone took their seats. Everyone except Braxton, that is. He paced the floor to my immediate right, like a nervous cat.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked. “You’ve been a wreck all night. Sit down and eat your ice cream before it melts.”

“I’ve got something I need to say.”

I poked a forkful of tiramisu into my mouth. “Say it after you eat.”

“If I wait, I’ll puke.”

“Did the lasagna upset your stomach?”

“No, it’s—”

I looked him over. “What then?”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Hap snarled. “Let the man speak.”

“Hap Rourke!” Marge snapped. “Of all times.”

“Well, he’s doing his best,” Hap retorted. “And she’s trying to shove goddamned ice cream down his throat.”

“Take a drink of wine,” Pratt offered. “Alcohol always calms my nerves.”

Braxton gulped his wine. Holding the empty glass, he stroked his beard with the web of his free hand.

He set the glass down at the end of the table. “The day I woke up from being sick, I realized something. I knew I didn’t want to die living my life in the manner I’d been living it. I wanted—I needed—to make some changes.”