Chase
By the time dinner ended, the table looked like the aftermath of a small celebration.
Empty plates, half-finished glasses, crumbs from the apple tart, and the remains of Dad’s overcooked steaks covered almost every available space.
Ryan pushed his chair back with a satisfied groan.
“I’m never eating again.”
Dad pointed at him. “You said that after the second helping.”
“I was younger then.”
“That was twenty minutes ago.”
“Exactly. I’ve changed.”
Missy laughed while gathering her phone and the small light she used for filming her baking videos.
“I need to finish editing before midnight,” she said. “Apparently, people become angry if recipes are not uploaded on schedule.”
“You say that like thirty thousand people are waiting outside with pitchforks,” I told her.
She looked a
