At Texas Roadhouse, I only eat baskets of rolls with cinnamon butter, fries with no sauce, and Coke.

That is the only acceptable dinner.

People say Texas Roadhouse has good steak. That might be true for people who eat steak, but I do not eat steak because steak is stringy and wet and sometimes has white parts in it. The white parts are worse than the red parts. Also, if meat is touching other meat or near other meat, then it is all meat-contaminated, and I do not want it.

Rolls are not near steak. French fries go in the fryer. Coke comes out of a machine.

Those things are safe.

The rolls come in a basket with a cloth napkin folded over them to keep them warm. I like that. The cinnamon butter comes in a little plastic cup, and I use the knife to spread it exactly to the edge of the roll because if one bite has too much butter and another bite has none, that is wrong.

Paul orders a giant ribeye with mashed potatoes and gravy. He also orders a beer, drinks it faster than Dad does, and orders another when the waitress comes back.

Mom looks at the empty glass for half a second, but she does not say anything because Paul is home and nobody wants to start.

He orders ribs as an appetizer too, which does not make sense because his steak is already large enough to count as dinner for two normal people.

But Paul has always been able to eat like that.

When he comes home from deployments, it gets worse. He guzzles water first, then beer, then more water, like his body has separate empty tanks that all need filling. He eats fast too, like someone might take the plate away if he slows down.

It makes me wonder if they starve Marines.

Or maybe they do not starve them, but they make them eat disgusting things like dry burnt toast and goopy applesauce packs and meat that comes out of silver bags.

Paul says it is not always like that, but Paul says a lot of things are "not that bad," and then later I find out they were extremely bad and he just did not want Mom to cry.

So I do not fully trust his food reports.

The ribs come out sticky and shiny and smelling like smoke and sauce.

I move my fries farther away.

Paul notices.

Of course he notices.

He grins, picks up one of the ribs, and pushes it toward me across the table.

"No," I say immediately.

"Come on, kid."

"No, Paul."

"One bite."

"No."

"It's meat candy."

"That is disgusting."

Dad laughs into his water.

Mom sighs. "Paul, don't do that."

Paul keeps grinning. "What? I'm broadening his horizons."

"My horizons are fine where they are."

"Your horizons are rolls and fries."

"And Coke."

"And Coke," Paul agrees, still holding the rib out. "Real fine dining."

"Paul," Mom says again. "Don't tease him."

Paul juts his bottom lip out at me. "Mama's little baby."

"I'm not a baby."

"You need to grow up, kid."

"Paul, what did I just—"

"I'm not a baby," I say again, louder this time.

Then I throw a fry at him.

It hits his shirt and drops onto the table.

Paul looks down at it.

Then he looks back at me, and his grin gets worse.

"You're so dead."

"No, I'm not."

"Wait until I get you home, kid. I'll kick your ass all over the pond."

"You're not allowed on my pond unless I say."

"Oh, you're gonna stop me?" He laughs and takes another drink of his beer. "Huh?"

"Yes."

"With your little fry-throwing hands?"

"They are not little."

Dad lowers his beer. "Guys. Come on."

Paul is still smiling when he shoves the rib toward me again.

"Sto-op," I whine, dragging the word out because he is getting sauce too close to my plate.

Paul laughs and finally takes the rib back. "You're still so whiny."

"I am not whiny. You are putting ribs near my fries."

"C'mon, kid. You need to broaden your palate a little."

"I don't like any meat except chicken," I state, buttering another roll. "Steak and pork are stringy and gross and have white in them."

"Marbling." Paul cuts into his steak and pops a piece into his mouth. "That's called marbling. And fat caps, which are fucking delicious."

"Paul," Mom says.

"What? They are."

"It is called gross white in it," I say.

Paul points his fork at me. "You're acting like the rib is going to crawl across the table and attack your fries."

"It might touch them."

"That is not the same thing."

"It is close."

Paul shakes his head, still laughing, and drags the ribs back toward his side of the table.

I inspect my fries.

None of them have sauce on them, which means they are still safe.

I take another bite of roll and then put three fries into my mouth because they are hot and perfect, and I need to eat them before they get soft.

"Eric," Mom says gently.

I look up.

There is cinnamon butter on my thumb, so I lick it off before answering.

"Yes?"

Her eyes are soft, which is dangerous because soft eyes usually mean feelings are coming.

"Who asked you to prom, honey?"

Paul's face lights up like she just handed him a present.

"Oh! That's right, yeah." He leans back and takes a long drink of his beer. "I want every detail of this interaction, kid."

"There are no details."

"There are always details."

"I was in Home Culinary."

"That's one."

"Chef Holstaff was in the hallway."

"That's two."

"Cameron Blightly came to my workstation."

Paul's eyebrows lift. "Cameron Blightly."

"You don't know her."

"I know the type."

"You cannot know the type if you do not know her."

"Kid, I've met the type."

Dad smiles a little while he cuts into his own steak. "Is she a nice girl?"

I think about that.

Cameron smiling at me.

Cameron saying I was cute.

Cameron looking back at her friends.

Ryan kicking the workstation.

"I don't know," I say.

Mom's smile fades a little. "You don't know?"

"She is pretty."

Paul laughs. "That was not the question."

"It is one of the relevant facts."

"It is definitely relevant," Paul says.

Mom gives him a look.

He holds up both hands. "What? It is."

"She is popular," I say. "She dates football people sometimes. She used to date Hank McCarthy, who is a baseball person, but I don't think she is dating Hank anymore."

Paul's mouth twitches. "Good to know Hank is out of the way."

"I don't think he was in the way. I think he was just previous data."

Dad coughs into his napkin.

Paul grins at me. "Previous data. Jesus, I missed you."

My chest warms so fast it almost hurts.

I look down at my plate and butter another roll even though I already have one half left.

"She asked if I wanted to be her date for prom," I say.

"And what did you say?"

"I asked why."

Paul freezes.

Then he starts laughing.

Not small laughing. Real laughing. The kind that makes him put his fork down and lean back in the booth.

Mom closes her eyes for one second. "Eric."

"What? I needed to know."

Paul points at me, still laughing. "No, no, he's right. That is a valid question."

"It is not the question you ask a girl when she asks you to prom," Mom says.

"Why not?"

"Because it can hurt her feelings."

"I did not want to hurt her feelings. That is why I said yes."

Paul's laughter stops.

Mom looks at me more carefully.

Dad does too.

Paul's smile fades around the edges, and he studies me for a second.

"You really thought saying no would hurt her."

"No." I frown because that is not exactly right. "I said yes because I did not know why she asked, but she asked in front of people, and saying no in front of people seemed mean. Also, she is very pretty. Also, she said I was cute."

Paul's face goes still.

Then his grin comes back, slower this time.

"She said you were cute?"

"Yes."

"And you lived?"

"It wasn't threatening," I say. "She just said it."

Dad covers his mouth with his napkin.

Paul presses his lips together so hard they almost disappear and looks down at the table.

Mom says, "Eric, honey."

"What?"

Paul leans forward with both elbows on the table. "What did you say when she said you were cute?"

"I told her I am not cute because I am six-four."

Paul laughs again, sharp and delighted. "God, kid."

"That was accurate."

"That was incredible."

"I don't understand why."

"Because you are you."

That is not an explanation, but Paul looks happy when he says it, so I do not argue.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

The table gets quiet in a different way.

Paul's eyes drop to my pocket.

Mom notices.

Dad notices.

I notice all of them noticing, which is terrible.

Paul's grin turns dangerous. "Is that Cameron Blightly?"

"I don't know."

"Check."

"I am eating."

"You are eating bread."

"That still counts."

Mom tilts her head. "Honey, you can check your phone."

Usually she says the opposite.

Usually phones at dinner are bad manners unless Paul is overseas, and then the phone can sit on the table because Paul might call and that is different.

But now Paul is here, and suddenly Cameron Blightly has become interesting enough to change the rules.

I wipe my fingers very carefully on my napkin before touching my phone because cinnamon butter on a screen is disgusting.

Then I pull it out.

Three messages.

All from Cameron.

My stomach drops the same way it did in English, except this time Paul is sitting across from me with steak and beer and that stupid delighted look on his face.

"Well?" Paul asks.

I stare at the screen.

Cameron wrote:

hey it's cameron :)

Then:

ryan gave me your number

Then:

hope that's okay lol

Paul leans forward. "What'd she say?"

"She said hey. It is Cameron. Ryan gave her my number. She hopes that is okay. Then she wrote L-O-L."

Paul presses his lips together again.

Dad looks down at his plate.

Mom smiles into her water glass.

"What?" I ask.

Paul shakes his head. "Nothing. That's good."

"What do I say?"

His expression changes.

Less joking now. More serious, but still warm.

"You say hey back," he says. "And you say it's okay."

"That seems too simple."

"It is simple."

"Nothing is simple."

"Sometimes texting is."

I look at the phone again.

My thumbs hover over the screen.

I type:

Hey. It is okay.

Then I stop.

"That sounds weird," I say.

Paul looks at Mom for help. "Mom?"

Mom leans over a little. "Maybe just, 'Hey, yeah, that's okay.'"

"That has fewer words."

"Sometimes fewer words are better."

I delete mine and type what Mom said.

Hey, yeah, that's okay.

I send it before I can ask fourteen more questions.

Then I put the phone facedown on the table like it might bite me.

Paul lifts his beer.

"Look at you. Prom date. NHL scouts. Texting girls at dinner."

"I hate this."

"No, you don't."

I look at him.

He is smiling at me again like he is proud of me just for existing.

My throat tightens so suddenly that I have to look down at my plate.

I pick up a fry and turn it between my fingers even though it is getting cold.

"I hate some of it," I say.

Paul's smile softens.

"Yeah, kid," he says. "That part I believe."