Everyone stared at everyone else.

I didn’t look at Colt but both Mom and Dad looked like they wanted to kick themselves while simultaneously looking like they just remembered it was their birthday and found out they’d won the lottery.

I had no idea what I looked like but testing Colt’s strength with a cautious pull at his arms which only grew all the more tight I knew he had no intention of letting me go. I made the decision not to fight it in this uncertain situation and I stayed where I was.

When no one said anything, I waded in. “I could do Frank’s.”

“We’ll come back later,” Mom said.

“You don’t have to come back later,” I told her, trying another tug at Colt’s arms and finding them just as resistant so I gave up again. “You bought enough food to feed an army, we could do breakfast here.”

“Why don’t you come back?” Colt spoke and I could not only hear his voice, I felt it rumbling against me from crotch to chest and it felt far from bad.

“We’ll come back,” Dad said, backing out.

“We’ll give you some time. An hour,” Mom said, backing out with Dad.

“Jackie, an hour?” Dad muttered.

“More than an hour,” Mom amended hurriedly.

“How ‘bout we let them call us?” Dad suggested.

“Good idea,” Mom muttered and Dad, one arm extended to grab the door, Mom having disappeared, took one look at me and Colt, gave Colt a nod and then he shut the door.

I pulled back a lot harder against Colt’s arms but those arms didn’t budge.

I tipped my head back to look at him, putting steady pressure on his shoulders with my hands.

“Let me go.”

“Why’d you name your cat Wilson?” he asked.

In my confusion at his inane and insane question, my steady pressure ceased.

“What?”

“Wilson. Weird name for a cat.”

“Colt.”

He grinned. “Better than Mr. Purrsie Purrs.”

I put the pressure back on. “Colt.”

His neck bent, dipping his face to mine and he murmured, “Great kiss, baby.”

The pressure ceased and I whispered, “Colt.”

“I liked it.”

“I think I need to move out,” I announced.

He ignored me. “A lot.”

“Maybe I’ll move in with Joe-Bob. He was in Vietnam. Maybe he knows hand to hand combat.”

“When you moaned in my mouth… fuck,” Colt muttered, his arms giving me a squeeze.

“Will you stop talking about the kiss?” I squealed.

The grin came back but he said, “You aren’t movin’ out.”

“I think it’s best.”

“You wouldn’t know what was best for you if it smacked you on the ass.”

“Colt.”

“Though, I’ll give it a try.”

“Colt!” I shouted, giving his shoulders a shove and succeeding in gaining about three inches of space before his arms went tight again, hauling me right back.

“You wanna go to breakfast with your parents?” he asked.

What I wanted was to find a safe place in the world, one, little, safe place. I didn’t care if it was a cardboard box in an alley in the scummiest section of New York City. If it was safe, with no murderers or bitchy ex-girlfriends of the guy’s bed I was sleeping in or ex-high school sweethearts who yelled at me and teased me about what I called my cat and who could kiss way, way better than he did twenty-two years ago, then I wanted to be in that box.

“You wanna know what I want?” I asked Colt.

His arms gave me a squeeze before one of his hands drifted into my hair and I felt him wrapping it around his fist.

“Yeah, I wanna know what you want.”

Then before I could stop it and even before I knew it was what I wanted, I said, “I want Dee and Morrie and the kids to come with us and, yeah, I wanna have breakfast with Mom and Dad at Frank’s. The whole family, eating Frank’s pancakes and drinking coffee and pretending life is normal.”

His eyes moved over my face before he said quietly, “You want that, I can get you that.”

“I want it,” I said quietly back.

“You got it, baby.”

Then he let me go, gently set me back a few inches with his hands at my waist, twisted, nabbed his phone from the counter, flipped it open, hit a button and about five seconds later, he said, “Morrie, get Dee and the kids together, February wants a family breakfast at Frank’s. Meet us and Jack and Jackie there in an hour.” His eyes came to me before he said, “Right. See you there. Later.”

He flipped his phone shut and said, “Get a shower, Feb, or we’ll be late.”

Without anything else to do, I turned from Colt, finished making my coffee and I walked through Colt’s crackerbox house that I liked too much, into his bedroom with the Harry’s print I liked too much, passed his bed which was big and comfortable and I liked it too much, into his bathroom which was just normal but it was still his so I liked it too much and there I took a shower.

* * * * *

Sundays were golden days, always had been.

Years ago when we were younger, Mom and Dad didn’t open the bar on Sunday. That meant that day was family day, Mom and Dad both home. Colt, Morrie and Dad used to sit in front of the TV watching football games and Mom and I would drift in and out. Mom would make nibbles for them out of cereal, nuts and pretzel sticks that she’d coated with some tangy, salty goo and baked. Or she’d make big bowls of popcorn that she poured real, melted butter on. At night she made us sit down to a big, family dinner, pot roast or meatloaf or fried chicken. After that we’d play a game, usually teams, boys versus girls. Or later we’d play cards, mostly euchre and Colt was always my partner.

When we got older, they opened the bar but for shortened hours, opening at three, closing at eleven. Morrie, Colt and I were usually out and about, hanging with friends or staying at home and watching videos or Colt and me would be up in my room necking.

I’d always loved Sundays but I hadn’t had a really good one in a really long time.

That day Colt gave me a really good Sunday. Such a good Sunday, I could almost forgive him for what he did.

Frank’s was a crush as it always was on Sunday mornings after church. We waited for a big table and it was worth the wait to have a stack of Frank’s fluffy, blueberry, buttermilk pancakes smothered in whipped butter and warm syrup, a bottomless cup of his top-notch coffee and family all around being loud. I finagled a seat between Palmer and Tuesday so I could poke Tuesday in the side and make her giggle and grab Palmer’s head and give him kisses so he would look at his Dad and whine, “Dad! Auntie Feb keeps kissing me!”