Table Talk

Ava

The dining room, like the rest of the house, was designed for accessibility without sacrificing aesthetics. My father wheeled up to a space at the head of the table where a chair had been removed. Alex held my chair for me, his fingers lightly brushing my shoulder as I sat—a casual touch that somehow felt startlingly intimate.

Dinner was a surprisingly relaxed affair. The paella was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and conversation moved easily from business to politics to my father's latest hobby—adaptive gardening techniques he was developing for others with mobility issues.

"It keeps the mind active," he explained to Alex. "After the accident, I could have just retreated, let the world pass me by. But what's the point in that? There's still work to be done."

"That's an admirable perspective," Alex said, genuine respect in his voice. "Most people wouldn't have your resilience."

My father waved away the compliment. "Not much choice in the matter. Besides, I had good motivation." He glanced at Emilia and me with naked affection. "My girls needed me to stick around, wheelchair or no wheelchair."

I reached over to squeeze his hand, a familiar lump forming in my throat. The car accident that had paralyzed him had happened just months after James's death. We'd nearly lost him too, and the thought still terrified me.

"The first few years were rough," my father continued, his tone matter-of-fact rather than seeking sympathy. "Ava practically ran herself into the ground trying to care for Emilia, launch her company, and deal with my medical needs."

"Dad," I protested softly. "You know I wouldn't have had it any other way."

"Of course you wouldn't. You're a Silver." He turned to Alex. "Stubborn as they come, this one. Never accepts help, never admits weakness. It's both her greatest strength and her biggest flaw."

"Dad," I said again, more firmly this time. "I'm sure Alex doesn't want to hear about my flaws."

"On the contrary," Alex said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I find them fascinating. Please, continue, George."

My father laughed, clearly warming to Alex more by the minute. "I like him," he announced to no one in particular. "He's got spirit."

"He's got something," I muttered into my wine glass.

The conversation flowed on, with my father regaling Alex with increasingly embarrassing stories from my childhood—how I'd started a neighborhood newspaper at age eight, charging residents for "exclusive" interviews with their own pets; how I'd organized a strike in middle school to protest unfair grading practices; how I'd once hijacked the school PA system to debate the principal on budget allocations.

"She's always been like this," my father concluded proudly. "Born ready to take on the world and anyone foolish enough to stand in her way."

Alex was watching me with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, more contemplative. "That sounds exactly like the Ava I know," he said softly.

Emilia, who had been mostly quiet during dinner, perked up. "Did Mom tell you about the time she yelled at my principal for making the girls play jump rope during recess while the boys got to play basketball?"

"She did not," Alex replied, turning his full attention to her. "What happened?"

Emilia launched into the story with enthusiasm, describing how I'd marched into the school demanding equal access to all playground activities. "Mom was so mad her face got all red, and she used her CEO voice, and the principal looked like he was going to cry!"

Alex laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that transformed his face. "I can picture it perfectly. Your mom is a force of nature when she's standing up for what's right."

"Like a superhero," Emilia agreed, warming to the subject. "But without a cape. Though that would be cool."

"Ava Silver: Caped Crusader for Equality," Alex mused. "I can see the comic book now."

"I think you're both overselling my heroics," I said, embarrassed but pleased by their shared appreciation.

"Not possible," my father declared firmly. "Now, who's ready for dessert? Maria made flan."

After dinner, my father suggested Alex join him for a brandy in his study while Emilia helped Maria clear the table—a transparent attempt to get Alex alone for some private conversation.

"Don't worry," he assured me with a wink. "I won't scare him off. Much."

As they disappeared down the hallway, Emilia sidled up to me. "Grandpa really likes him," she observed.

"Seems that way," I agreed, starting to gather plates despite Maria's protests.

"Do you like him?" Emilia asked, her gaze penetrating.

I hesitated, uncertain how to answer. "He's... not what I expected," I said finally.

"That's not really an answer," my daughter pointed out, frustratingly perceptive as always.

"It's complicated, Em."

"Adults always say that when they don't want to explain things."

I sighed, setting down the plates. "You're right. I'm sorry." I crouched to her level, meeting her eyes directly. "The truth is, I don't know how I feel about Alex. I've thought of him as a rival for so long, it's hard to see him differently. But yes, I'm starting to... like certain things about him."

Emilia nodded, processing this. "Is that why your face gets all weird when he looks at you?"

"Weird?" I repeated, alarmed. "What do you mean, weird?"

"You know," she said, making an exaggerated swoony face that I sincerely hoped looked nothing like my actual expression. "All mushy and stuff."

"I do not look mushy," I protested, feeling my cheeks heat.

"Do too," she insisted. "It's okay, though. He looks at you the same way."

Before I could respond to this unsettling observation, she skipped off to help Maria, leaving me standing in the dining room with a handful of dirty silverware and a head full of confusion.

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