The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh

I just thought,” she shrugged, “I’d see if your dad wanted to come by for a cup of coffee?”
    I ushered my guests into the mudroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Rosemary unwrapped her black cashmere kerchief and let her red locks fall into place around her face. She shook her scarf free of stray snowflakes and stomped her rubber galoshes on our braided area rug. Gabe danced a balancing act while holding the large, potted plant and stepping out of his own soaked boots. He didn’t seem nervous, only eager, but I was quivering inside. Gabe Weaver was inside my house.
    I graciously accepted the plant from Gabe so he could remove his coat. “It’s gorgeous!”
    â€œI love your portico! I haven’t seen one like it in all of Brandywine,” Gabe replied enthusiastically, staring wide-eyed at the mudroom around him. I had no idea what he was talking about.
    â€œYour doorway,” he motioned to the place he’d just stood. “I helped my dad restore our house a couple years ago. I’ve got a whole glossary of architectural jargon up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. He walked over to a wall and lightly rapped on it with his knuckle, “Horse hair plaster?”
    I stared at him dumbfounded while he grinned. We entered the foyer, and Gabe’s eyes moved delicately over the crown molding and the staircase: its banister, the decorative brackets, and the worn walnut steps.
    Dad stood in the entry to the living room. He’d removed his reading glasses and was casually holding a model train car in his left hand, but I could tell he was nervous. As far as I knew, this was the first time he’d seen Rosemary since Thanksgiving.
    â€œHey there, Rosemary.” Then Dad noticed Gabe crouching next to the stairway running his hand over the wood. Dad cocked his head, unsure what to make of him.
    Gabe stood and walked across the foyer, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Gabe Weaver. My parents own the grocery store in town.” Gabe motioned to the stairwell. “Walnut floors. You don’t really see those around here anymore. They’re in great condition!”
    Dad took Gabe’s hand.
    â€œChristian Magnusson, Lou’s father.”
    I let out a slow breath of relief as Dad relaxed his stance. He wasn’t acting like a maniac; he wasn’t even mildly embarrassing. And then it was over. After the introductions, Dad turned back to face Rosemary.
    â€œDo you want to come in?” he gestured.
    â€œI thought maybe you’d like to come down to my place for a cup of coffee?” Rosemary glanced at me for approval. I nodded hopefully at them both.
    â€œAh, but I just put a pot on here! Come on in!” While the two retreated into the warmth of the living room, Rosemary glanced back at me and mouthed a silent “Sorry.”
    In that moment, I wanted to throw my arms around my redheaded neighbor and thank her. How did she know I’d need a dad diversion? Maybe she really was psychic.
    I led Gabe through the hallway to the kitchen, his gaze studying the architectural detail in every room.
    â€œThanks for the flowers,” I blushed. Gabe was the only guy who had ever given me flowers except for my dad.
    â€œMy pleasure,” he answered.
    I handed him two eggs and nodded toward a bowl on the countertop.
    â€œHave you got one of these for me?” He fingered the strap of my apron and the small motion made me weak.
    If I knew nothing else about Gabe, it was that he didn’t follow the normal rules of personal space. He stood where he shouldn’t stand, but I loved the closeness. I welcomed his innocent intimacy. He made me feel nervous and excited, and I loved that feeling.
    â€œYou can have mine,” I said, eager to pawn the blue bulk onto someone else. I began untying the apron from behind me.
    â€œBut your sweater . . . ” He didn’t look interested in going forward with the