Jack's family's driver Milton drove us to this 5-star restaurant that's on the water. I'm definitely not dressed appropriately, wearing jeans and a striped tank top, so I'm happy that I packed a sweater to slip over.

After the game, Jack quickly showered while I waited with his parents, and he changed into khaki pants and a white t-shirt.

We're sitting at a square table with me and Jack on one side and his parents on the other, but I can feel the hostility between him and his dad. On the other hand, Bea is a sweetheart, just like Molly said she is. All she's done so far is compliment Jack on how awesome of a game he played.

"You looked tired out there," Peter says otherwise. "Have you been keeping up with your morning workouts?"

"Every day," Jack says in an annoyed tone as he reaches for the glass of water in front of him.

"Peter, stop it. He looked great," Bea says, gently whatting her husband's arm. Surprisingly, Peter doesn't contest.

"Timothy said he hasn't seen you come in yet. I hope you didn't forget about the party," his dad says, and I'm trying my hardest not to look confused.

"That's because I haven't had a second to breathe, dad. Between lacrosse, school, and applications, I don't have much free time these days," Jack says.

"I'm sure a relationship doesn't help, either." It's clearly a dig, but I try to ignore it.

"It's fine. I can find you another tux, honey," Bea says, glancing at Jack.

"That's sweet of you, dear," Peter interjects, "but a tux doesn't just fit itself. That's what Timothy's for. He said he'd tailor the suit to perfection. If Jack ever decides to pay him a visit..."

"I said I will, dad. Now, can we talk about something else?" Jack asks.

"Yes, new topic," Bea says, clasping her hands together and looking at me. "So, Anastasia, tell us more about yourself. Jack says you moved here from Chicago. How are you liking Sinclair Prep so far?"

"Oh, um, it was definitely a bit of an adjustment in the beginning, but I'm finally starting to find my way," I say, glancing at Jack and offering him a faint smile. He throws me one right back.

"I heard your dad is the school chef," Peter says.

"Uh, yeah," I respond, and he just nods like he's not pleased with my answer before cutting into his steak.

"That must be so nice. Getting to see your father every day," Bea remarks.

"It is.

"And your mother?"

"Oh, uh, not in the picture."

"Why not?" Peter asks.

"I don't really think that's any of our business," Jack states.

"You two are dating, aren't you? I mean, isn't that what this is?" he says, gesturing between the both of us. "Wouldn't it make sense for us to know more about Anastasia's family?"

"Yes. And there'll be another time for that."

"Yes, Jack's right, Peter. Let's save that for another time," Bea says, looking on uncomfortably before changing the subject. "So, Anastasia, Jack tells me you're looking into Dartmouth for college. You know, Peter graduated from there."

"Jim called me the other day," Peter cuts in before I can even respond to Bea. He looks at me and then clarifies, "Jim is Jordana's father, dear."

"Yeah, and?" Jack says indifferently.

"And...he wanted to know if we wanted to come over for dinner next week. I told him Thursday night works great."

"I have practice."

"Only until 6. You can come home, shower, and then we can go."

Jack glares at his dad, but it doesn't matter how he looks at him. Peter Carrington is an ass.

"I'm not going, dad. Jordana and I aren't together. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Jim is my business partner. And you'll be working for the family business once you graduate from Dartmouth, so I'd say it's very appropriate."

"I'm not doing this right now," Jack says, removing the napkin from his lap and angrily dropping it on the table.

"Jack, honey," his mom says, reaching for him in an effort to calm him.

"Thanks for dinner. All 20 minutes of it. That's a new record for us, isn't it dad?" Jack says, scooting his chair out and giving his dad one more disappointed look before walking away.

I anxiously peer between his parents and then say in a soft tone, "I think I should go. But thank you for inviting me to dinner."

Bea offers me a half smile, clearly feeling bad about what unfolded tonight, as Peter just remains rigid.

***

Jack's standing outside, running his hand through his hair, when I find him.

"Hey," I softly say, reaching for his arm. He slowly turns his head and tilts it up to look at me.

"I'm sorry about that. My dad can be a real asshole."

"I'm sorry that you had to deal with that."

He shakes his head, and I can tell that he feels bad for himself. I feel bad for him, too. "Wanna get out of here?" he asks me, and I nod.

"Definitely."

***

We didn't have Milton drive us. Jack called an Uber and asked me where we should go, so I proposed my house. I know that dad's home, but he won't bother us.

"You sure he won't mind?" Jack asks. "I don't think your dad's my biggest fan."

"Then we're even," I tease. "And that's because my dad doesn't know you."

When we walk into my house, I immediately smell chocolate, which means dad's baking. 

"Dad?" I call out.

"In here!" he answers from the kitchen.

"We have a visitor," I inform him when we enter, and he turns his head around.

"Oh. That we do."

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Jack says, and I look at my dad in a pleading manner to not make this awkward for anyone. We've already had enough discomfort for one night.

My dad drops his shoulders and lends a soft smile. "No. Not at all. Perfect timing, actually. I could use some help here." I notice a bunch of baking products splayed across the counter as my dad nods to the hook stand that hangs from the wall. "Grab an apron, son," he tells Jack.

Jack cutely chuckles and makes his way to the wall, grabbing the white one that says 'Your Opinion Wasn't In The Recipe'. It was a gift that I got for my dad on his birthday.

"Oh, that is so fitting," I say as Jack ties the back of it.

"I should be honest with you, sir, the last time I tried to bake something, I burnt it."

"Sir?" dad repeats. "Anastasia, honey, who's the boy calling 'sir'? C'mon, Jack, call me Dan." Jack looks at me and I just shrug. "Okay, Jack, you'll be in charge of the frosting."

"We're frosting the brownies?"

"Of course we're frosting the brownies."

And next thing I know, we're all sitting outside on the patio chairs that dad assembled the other day, noshing on the delicious vanilla frosted dessert.

"10/10 on the frosting, Jack," I tell him.

"All your dad," he says.

"Nope. All you, Jack," dad returns the compliment, and Jack gives him a smile.

We spend the rest of the night laughing and talking. Dad tells Jack stories about me as a kid, how I was always this organized go-getter, and even shows him baby pictures. The mention of my mom doesn't come up, and it makes me realize that I may be ready to talk about her with Jack.

Having Jack here tonight felt right. There's not a single second where he didn't seem invested in the conversation. He even asked my dad about what had gotten him into cooking. He wasn't Jack Carrington – the popular guy in school, Jack Carrington – the star athlete, or Jack Carrington – the gorgeous asshole.

He was just Jack Carrington.