“Grandmother and I made spaghetti and meatballs the night before Christmas back when I was little,” Del explained. “It’s one of the only things I can make. Every year, even if I’m all by myself, I have it.”
Though spaghetti looked more like a plaything to me than food, the guys scarfed it down.
“Spaghetti and cookies, you do both very well.”
“And you can cook everything else. Let’s get fat together.” Del patted his non-existent belly.
Baily got up from the table. “One day at a time.”
“Right. The future can be scary.”
“Attachment can be.”
Del stood. He took Baily’s hand. “I won’t push.”
“But will you help me with the dishes?”
Del drifted off for a catnap once they were done, a dog on each side of him up on the couch, where dogs shouldn’t be, in my opinion, because that left no room
