In a twisted way, I envy her. I’m not saying I wish I was the last family member standing; I’m not a monster. There is, however, a certain freedom that comes without their circulation in your orbit. No pigeonhole. No expectations. I’m thirty-five, yet my parents still have a way of making me feel five years old. It seems like I’ve spent my entire life trying to jam my square shape into their round hole. It’s exhausting at times.
Okay, all the time.
“I take it your nuclear family is alive and kicking,” she says.
Definitely alive and most definitely kicking. “What makes you assume I come from a nuclear family?”
She gives me A Look. “Your name is Charles Manson Laughton the Third. Your people stay married come hell or high water.”
“I guess that’s true. My parents are celebrating their fortieth anniversary in August.”
“See? And your siblings? Let me guess—a brother and a sister, right?”
I blanch. “Did you look me up online?”
She laughs. “With the wonky Internet service here? No, sir. You give off a strong upper-middle-class suburban vibe.”
There’s no point in being offended when she’s right. “I have a brother and a sister. You may have heard of her. Elizabeth Thorpe.” I wait for the usual light of recognition, but it doesn’t come. “She’s a professional golfer.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. I don’t follow any sports.”
“None at all?”
“I mean, I know who the Eagles are, and that the correct response to any fan is, ‘Go Birds,’ but I haven’t seen a game, and I couldn’t name a single player if my life depended on it.”
I gape at her. “I haven’t met anyone this side of Harrisburg who hasn’t watched at least one Eagles game.”
“Sorry. Not my thing. Now if you ask me to name all the songs from the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, that I can do.”
“Huh,” I say, because I’m too dumbfounded to come up with anything else. I knew she was different from the people I usually mix with, but this is next level. “Is that where the sugar glider got her name?”
She nods. “Gloria is a big fan. She rewatches her favorite episodes whenever she’s in a funk. What’s your comfort TV show?”
Her questions stump me. “I don’t watch much television.”
“Not even a legal drama?”
“The last thing I’d watch would be a legal drama.” I already bring my work home with me every night, no need to treat it as entertainment too. “I’ve seen a few seasons of Survivor.” My father liked to watch it, presumably to guess the winner in advance and win the family pool, although I’ve always had a strong suspicion he was making mental notes in the event of a shipwreck or a nuclear war. If there’s one thing my father is dead set on, it’s winning, whether it’s at poker or life itself.
“Good,” she says. “Now I know who to come to when we run out of food.”
“That happens?”
She laughs. It’s low and throaty, like she’s been a chain-smoker since birth, and it doesn’t match the rest of her. “Don’t worry, Chucky. You’ll have more hotdogs than your system can handle these next two weeks. I recommend experimenting with different condiments.”
I hear a collection of shouts from the adjacent area. “What’s happening over there?”
She checks her phone. “Robo races. Want to see?”
“Sure.” I’m not sure the excitement involved warrants the level of noise I’m hearing.
“No betting allowed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I straighten. “Do I strike you as a gambler?”
“Not with a collar as starched as yours. Good point.”
As we crest a hill, I see the source of the excitement. As promised, small robot toys have been placed in a straight line. Their owners stand behind them holding remote controls.
