Mom reaches into a plastic bag to continue putting her groceries away. “Of course,” she says, pulling out a can of diced tomatoes. “Your friends are always welcome.”
“What are you cooking?” I ask anxiously.
“I was planning on meat loaf … ”
“Mom, please not meat loaf.”
Mom sets the jar of tomatoes on the kitchen counter. “What did you have in mind?”
I shrug. “Do you know how to make lobster?”
“Lobster?”
“Or shrimp, then. Maybe shrimp pasta?”
Mom’s eyebrows crinkle. “I’d have to head right back out to the store … ”
I sigh with relief. “Perfect. Thank you, Mom. Need some help putting the groceries away?”
“Well, considering that I’m headed right back out … ”
“Leave it to me.”
Mom studies me for a second, then picks up her purse.
“Pasta and a salad … is that all right?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
I impulsively kiss her on the cheek, and she heads back out the door.
I walk through the family room to the deck, where Dad is reading a book.
“Imbroglio,” he says, not looking up as I join him.
“Like, a big mash-up of confusion,” I say.
“You must have been studying a dictionary. Webster precedes lots of definitions with the word ‘like.’ ”
I wink and sit beside him. “You’re just mad you can never trip me up. I have, like, the gigantic-est vocabulary ever.”
Dad sets his book aside and stretches his legs out. “Things settling down with Mom and Brian?” he asks.
“Brian says she’ll never lay eyes on his baby, but other than that … ”
“So they’ve basically patched things up.”
“I dunno … it’s quite the imbroglio,” I say, messing with Dad by pronouncing the G. I tap a finger against my thigh for a couple of moments, then add, “Oh, by the way, a friend is coming over for dinner tonight.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “A friend.”
“Yeah. No biggie.”
“A friend from home?”
I sigh, exasperated. “No, Dad. Just a friend. Like I said, no big deal.”
“Well, does the friend have a name? Or should I just say, ‘Hi, Friend’?”
“Scott. His name is Scott.”
Dad takes that in, then nods slowly, staring at the beach.
“A new friend?” he finally asks.
“Just a friend, Dad. Can we not make this a big deal?”
“Like, an imbroglio?” he says, messing back by pronouncing the G.
“Funny.”
“So,” Dad says, practically doing backflips to try to sound casual, “this Scott is a nice guy?”
I huff. “Why is so inconceivable to everybody that a guy might be interested in me?” Uh-oh. I’m trying to keep things casual, and here I go casting myself as a needy loser.
“I just asked if he’s nice,” Dad says, holding up his hands in self-defense. “And by the way, nothing seems less inconceivable to me than a guy thinking you’re the most spectacular girl on earth.”
Oh god.
“You know,” Dad continues, still staring at the ocean, “I hardly dated at all before I met your mom.”
I wish I could shift the conversation back to vocabulary words, but I guess it’s too late for that now.
“Yeah?” I say, feigning indifference.
“Yeah. I was always really shy around girls. Plus, I think it’s well established what an outstanding student I was, and, you know, that takes lots of time.”
I snicker. “So you were shy around women, but Mom, of all people, was the one you finally felt comfortable enough with to ask out?”
“Oh, no,” he responds. “Nothing about your mom made me comfortable. She scared the bejeesus out of me. So pretty and confident … ”
“So why her?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My interest outweighed my fear. I’d had my eye on her a long time … kept trying to be at the right place at the right time, dropping all kinds of hints … but she wasn’t interested in some guy loitering on the sidelines. I had to get in the game to stand a chance with her.”
“So you finally asked her out?”
“Yeah. I finally asked her out.”
“And you swept her off her feet?”
His eyes turn wistful. “Your mom’s not a swept-off-her-feet kinda gal. But it was enough. Whatever I had to offer was enough.”
I lean closer to him. “Dad, you’re way more than enough.”
His expression lightens. “Tell her that for me, will you? And while you’re at it, mention I’m really hungry for meatloaf.”
I grimace. “Sorry. I kinda ruined that for you. Is shrimp pasta okay instead?”
He pouts. “The girls always get their way around here.”
I stand up and tap his knee before walking back inside. “Yeah, and don’t you forget it.”
“A guest for dinner, huh?”
I swat Brian with the kitchen towel. “This is why I don’t date.”
“Looks like you’re dating now,” Brian says in a singsong voice.
Olivia walks into the kitchen. “Who’s dating?”
“Forrest has a ‘friend’ coming over for dinner,” Brian answers, with elaborate air quotes around “friend.”
Olivia sucks in a breath. “The guy from the beach?” she asks me.
I roll my eyes. “A friend is coming over for dinner. That’s it. Don’t you think I have my hands plenty full keeping Mom in line? Just be cool, okay, guys? Please? For me?”
“When did you invite him?” Olivia asks.
“I didn’t invite him,” I snap. “I just said, you know, like, ‘Hey, we’ll be eating dinner around seven if you wanna come.’ ”
“Now, granted, my vocab can’t compete with yours, but I’m pretty sure that qualifies as an invitation,” Brian says. “And you’re sure he actually RSVP’d … ?”
He’s teasing, but my stomach is tied in too many knots to play along. Scott will be here in less than an hour. I’ve already helped Mom peel the shrimp, so now I have to go shower the fishy smell out of my pores and decide what to wear.
“What are you gonna wear?” Olivia says. I swear, it’s like people are reading my thoughts these days.
“Just whatever,” I say.
Brian snorts. “Like you haven’t thought about it.”
“Wanna borrow something of mine?” Olivia asks.
I squeeze my hands into fists. “You guys! Please just cool it, okay? I’m capable of having a friend over for dinner without a team of advisors.” I glare at Brian. “Or smartasses.”
“Well, if I was advising you,” he says, “I’d definitely suggest showering. You smell like shrimp.”
I stick out my tongue and leave the kitchen. Olivia follows me down the hall.
“Hey, Forrest?”
Oh please don’t make me keep talking about this. I’ll barf, I swear I will.
“Yeah?”
“I just … I’m glad he’s coming to dinner. I know you like him, and that’s great. I was just a little worried, based on … well, you know. But if he’s coming to dinner and meeting your family, well, that’s great.”
I manage a tight smile. I know she means well, but geez, I’m sick of being under a microscope. “Thanks. I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”
“Right. And I meant what I said … about borrowing an outfit, if you want. I could help you pick one out … ”
“I’m cool. Really. But thanks.”
“Right.”
Olivia smiles and heads back toward the kitchen.
Maybe the knot in my stomach will unravel by the time Scott gets here.
&n
bsp; twenty-one
“What is an oligarchy?”
“What is an oligarchy?” the Jeopardy! contestant on TV says, and Dad smiles. He’s always a step ahead of the Jeopardy! contestants.
His rat-a-tat answers are the only thing lifting the tension in the room as the moments tick away. At first, we all tried to act casual; seven o’clock came and went, but, whatever, lots of people show up late for a dinner date. Then, at ten after seven, it was like, no big deal, Scott will be here any minute. Then ten more minutes … then another ten … then Jeopardy! started, along with Mom’s questions about whether my “friend” was sure which house was ours …
And maybe he’s not. Scott said he knew where I lived, but I never gave him the address, and he doesn’t have my phone number in case he needed to call, and …
And nothing. Every neighbor within a mile knows us, so if he went to the wrong house, somebody would immediately point him in the right direction. He’s had time to find me.
He just doesn’t want to.
I guess he never had any intention of coming. But in that case, why not just say so?
I can’t believe my stupidity. He blows me off once, then I give him a chance to do it again? A few kisses on the beach and I think we’re some sort of couple? Never a single real date, yet I blithely assume he’d jump at the chance to spend an evening with my parents? I’m the loser of the universe.
The only thing worse than the pity I feel emanating from my family’s pores is the fact that they’re trying so hard not to show it. Just hanging out, watching Jeopardy!, ready to eat cold pasta whenever I give the word, but no rush, no biggie …
I’d go collapse on my bed if I could, but that would just add more layers of awkwardness, more hushed conversations about who should go check on me, more forced cheerfulness to make sure I’m clear that being stood up on my first real date is no big deal.
So all I can do is sit there and listen to Dad answer the Jeopardy! questions while stomachs grumble around me. Seriously, I’m no drama queen, but there is no form of death right now I wouldn’t welcome. After all, I have to survive not only this excruciating moment, but every moment for the rest of my life hereafter with this searing humiliation looming sadistically in my memory bank. I’d throw confetti on the Grim Reaper if he walked in right now.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
We all exchange startled glances. It’s weird that Scott is banging on our front door rather than merely ringing the doorbell, but omigod I am so relieved he’s here that I could cry. He’s here! He came! I’m not the most pathetic person on the face of the earth!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mom is heading for the door when it suddenly flings open.
“Where is she?!? Where is my daughter?!?”
We’re all on our feet now, rushing toward the foyer. We’re so ridiculously disoriented that the woman on the doorstep stops ranting long enough to absorb our stunned expressions.
But just for a moment. Now she’s ranting again: “I want my daughter NOW!”
“Mom!” Olivia gasps, lunging to her side. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking you home!”
The woman flings her arms around Olivia’s neck, sobbing as their long blonde hair intertwines.
We stand there for a moment exchanging what-the-hell looks, then Dad prods mother and daughter inside and closes the door behind them.
“Why don’t we all sit down … ” he says.
“I don’t want to sit down!” Olivia’s mother shrieks. “I’m taking my daughter home this instant!”
Olivia disentangles from her mother’s embrace. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“I told you! I’m taking you home! We’re not spending another minute around these maniacs trying to steal your baby!”
Brian’s back stiffens. “What home are you talking about?” he asks her. “You’ve never made a home for Olivia in your life!”
“Don’t even think about turning this around on me!” the woman shouts, shaking a finger at him. “You’re probably in on your mother’s plan: ‘Find some couple at church to adopt the little bastard, Mom, but act like I don’t have anything to do with it. Then maybe I can keep getting all the sex I want after this little inconvenience is taken care of.’ Well, you’re not getting off that easy, buddy! I’ll make sure you fulfill your responsibility to your baby if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Like you fulfilled yours?” Brian yells, his eyes bulging.
“Stop it, stop it!” Olivia cries. She gives Brian a pleading look. “I called her yesterday, right after you told me about the conversation with your parents, when I was still upset and didn’t realize—”
“Didn’t realize what?” Olivia’s mother says. “That the only reason this woman invited you to her froufrou beach house was to steal your baby out from under you?”
Mom presses a hand against her cheek, her mouth agape.
“She was just trying to give us some options,” Olivia says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She wasn’t trying to ram anything down our throats. I didn’t understand. Like I said, I called you when I was still upset, and—”
“Well, I’m pretty damn upset right this minute!” her mother shoots back.
Dad holds a palm in the air. “Hold it! Everybody needs to calm down. Please!”
“What do you have to say about anything?” the mother says, sneering at Dad. “Speaking of which, I want genetic testing done on this baby. No telling what kind of medical history we’ll be dealing with.”
Stunned silence.
Olivia locks teary eyes with Brian and mouths, “I’m sorry.”
As my eyes dart from one face to the next, the realization shoots through my heart like a dagger: my imagination hasn’t been running wild. My instincts aren’t off base.
Everybody knows something I don’t.
twenty-two
Nobody moves a muscle.
My mind is reeling, and everyone else seems like they’ve just been thwacked in the head with a two-by-four.
Genetic testing …
Medical history …
“Get. Out. Of. My. HOUSE!” Mom’s roar thunders through the foyer like a tsunami. “OUT!”
“Honey … ” Dad cajoles, but Mom waves him away like a gnat.
“You will not waltz in here and tear my family apart,” Mom tells Olivia’s mother. “Get the hell out! ”
Every jaw drops. Mom is actually shaking. And cursing! This is surreal.
Olivia’s mother is frozen in place.
“Out!” Mom shrieks, lunging toward her.
“Hold it!” Brian interjects, stepping between the two mothers and making a time-out motion. He glances at Olivia. “Let’s take your mom out and get some fresh air.”
Olivia nods, her eyes petrified.
“Who are you to kick me out?” Olivia’s mom sputters, indignant to be out-bullied.
“I will tear your hair out if you hurt my family,” Mom responds, in the most chilling monotone I’ve ever heard.
“We’re leaving, we’re leaving,” Brian says, taking Olivia and her mother by their arms. “We’ll get some air, get a bite to eat, we’ll calm down, then we’ll … ”
Then we’ll what? Watch these two banshees claw each other’s eyes out?
“Then we’ll discuss this like adults,” Brian finishes.
That’s just what Brian suddenly seems like. An adult. I know he is one now, technically speaking, but up until this beach trip it’s been hard to see him as anything other than the kid who played SpongeBob to my Sandy Cheeks in our backyard games as toddlers. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard to picture him as a father. Suddenly, it’s not hard at all. I swallow hard.
Brian leads Olivia and her mother outside, then closes the door behind him.
My parents and I stand there, the tension of the past
few moments seeping out like steam from a teakettle.
twenty-three
“It’s time.”
Mom shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Maureen: it’s time.”
Approximately three minutes have passed since I’ve ex-haled. Looking from Mom’s frantic face to Dad’s expression of sad resignation has convinced me of one thing: my dread now firmly outweighs my curiosity. Whatever it’s time for, I don’t think I want to know.
Dad looks at me. “Let’s sit down, honey.”
But I don’t move a muscle until he takes my arm and leads me toward the family room.
“Michael … ” Mom protests weakly, but she follows us to the couch. Mom and I sit on it—collapse on it, really—and Dad sits across from me in the recliner, pitching forward and putting his hand on my knee.
“Honey … ”
Mom moans, dropping her face into her palms.
“Honey, you know how much your mother and I love you and Brian … ” Dad continues, and a thousand Very Special Episodes of saccharine sitcoms fill my head.
“Nothing could ever change that,” he adds, and I wonder if the nervous tension will make me burst into hysterical laughter. But I just keep sitting there, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“Honey, when your mother and I—”
“No!” Mom wails, her face still buried in her hands.
Dad pauses a moment, then continues: “When we—”
“NO!” Mom says again. “I mean it, Michael! I can’t do this! We need time to … ”
“To what ?” Dad challenges, kind but resolute.
“To do this right!”
Dad moves his hand from my knee to Mom’s. “It’s time,” he whispers.
Mom jumps to her feet. “I can’t! Do you understand that? I can’t!”
She runs down the hall and slams her bedroom door behind her.
We hear her weeping, and Dad looks torn for a moment about whether to go to her. But his mind is made up. He’s clearly decided there’s no turning back now.
He clears his throat and seems to force himself to hold my gaze. “When your mother and I started dating,” he says, absurdly trying to sound casual, “she was already pregnant.”
Thirty Sunsets Page 10
