“He’s cute,” Mom whispers while I’m loading the dishwasher. “Cole Sprouse?” “Nolan.” I huff. It doesn’t come out as indignant as I’d like. “No, he’s not.” “And he seems to have great taste.” “Because he ate a stomach-pumping amount of your meat loaf?” “Mostly that. Only secondarily because he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from my most oblivious daughter.”
