“Trivia night,” I answer. “Here in Chicago. Ryot and his brother, Banner, needed two more players on their team, and so did Nichole and I. Worked out.”

“You good at trivia?” Dad asks Ryot.

“Not as good as your daughter, sir. I went into that night thinking I was going to own the scoreboard, but your daughter taught me a thing or two.”

Pridefully, Dad says, “She got that from me.”

“Dinner is ready,” Mom yells from the kitchen, which means everyone has about two seconds to get into the dining room before we all get yelled at for disrespecting her and not showing up to the table quickly enough.

We all pop up from the couch and head into the dining room, where there are four place settings facing each other. Steamed broccoli is piled in a bowl while a bowl of biscuits is on one side, and Mom’s chicken gravy is on the other side. Each place setting has a fork, a knife, a napkin, and a glass of milk. That’s the only drink you get when Mom serves dinner.

And speaking of Mom . . .

She emerges from the kitchen wearing black slacks, a white blouse, and a hardened scowl. Her hair is short and peppered with gray. There are newly formed wrinkles around her lips, most likely from constantly pursing them with disdain.

“Hello,” she says, offering Ryot a nod, not a handshake. “You must be Ryan.”

“Ryot,” he corrects, which only makes her scowl even more. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Moore.”

She scans Ryot up and down and then says, “Wish I could say the same.” She then turns to me and says, “Myla, I see you’re still carrying that extra weight in your thighs. It’s about time you’ve come to visit us.”

Trying not to wither under her stare or her insult, I answer, “Been busy.”

“With that waitressing job, I presume. Still haven’t decided to start a real career yet?”

“Why don’t we all sit down and eat?” Dad suggests, breaking up the tension.

Thankfully, Mom listens, and she rounds the table to Dad’s side.

Yup, no hug.

No good to see you.

Just judgment about my weight, my career, and never visiting.

I wonder why?

Ryot pulls out my chair and helps me scoot in before he takes a seat. The minute he’s settled, his hand falls to my thigh, and he doesn’t move it once.

“So Ryot, you play for a baseball team?” Dad asks.

“Yes, sir. The Chicago Bobbies.”

“We don’t watch baseball in this house,” Mom says while she divvies up everyone’s allotted serving of food. I’ve warned Ryot that whatever she gives you, you eat.

Of course, Dad and Ryot get normal portions, whereas I get half as much. According to my mom, my thighs are too large, my arms are too fat, and she’s shocked I can fit my ass into my jeans.

“Shame,” Ryot says. “It’s a great sport.”

“Ryot is the starting third baseman,” I chime in for God knows what reason.