ALICE
Rory shoved the last cookie tray in the oven, and then we stepped back.
Mom was bustling around the kitchen, hurrying to have everything prepared. I could tell by her excitement that she wanted to impress Mr. Linden-Hawthorne.
Right now, he was seated at the table in our little dining room. It was just a round wooden table close to the living room with six chairs around it. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, prepared by my mother, and his eyes hadn't left me since he sat down half an hour ago.
The table was set. Thankfully, everything matched except for the chipped mug and bowl that were Rory's favorite and the only ones he ever used. He had his own fork, too. And spoon. It was dented, but it had been his spoon since he was four.
"Rory," Mom said over her shoulder, "why
