They stick their tongues out at each other, both trying not to laugh. I love their antics and boisterousness; I’ve always wanted to be as free. Sometimes I am, but the fact remains: while May and June have had to make themselves heard in their family of seven, I am an only child and silence comes naturally.
May takes her own corner of the couch to curl up on before pinning me with a look. “Not that I don’t love that you’vefinallycome back home to dinner—”
“Hey, I was in California.” I still have one semester to finish up.
“And apparently, she’s forgotten about the use ofaeroplanes.”
I roll my eyes at her use of the old-fashioned word.
“You had all summer free,” May complains. “And you wait until the middle of freakingSeptemberto show up.”
Unlike May, June, and March, who started class on the first, my academic year begins on the final week of September.
Guilt twists as I rest my head on the sofa back cushion, but then I think about my last conversation with Mom. “I’m beginning to think I should have stayed away.”
They both know why. May goes quiet. We all do.
“Things didn’t go so well?” June asks softly.
March leans in from the kitchen entryway. “Enough yapping. Get your chatty butts to the table, ’cause I’m not waiting to eat.”
“When my butt is being chatty,” May shoots back, “you will know it, bro.”
On that note, we go in to dinner.
Four
Pen
Since the whole family isn’t here, Margo sets up dinner at the big round table in the kitchen nook rather than their large dining room.
I’ve often wondered how long it took her to figure out how much to make to satisfy her very hungry brood. Not that the kids live at home anymore. A car accident last winter left January unable to properly throw and forced him into early retirement. He lives in Austin’s Lake District now, near the University of Texas where March goes to school. With May and June in school at Boston University, and August in LA, it’s just her and Neil.
Tonight, however, Neil is visiting an old teammate in Denver. Even so, she sets down a platter of roasted potatoes large enough to feed a dance hall. May follows, carrying a bowl piled high with pillowy biscuits. There’s three roast chickens and a bowl of caramelized Brussels sprouts already on the table.
At Margo’s urging, I take a seat just as August enters bringing yet another bowl—buttered carrots, by the look of it. I fuss with my water glass so that our gazes don’t inadvertently collide. The teeth thing still looms in my mind. It’s all I can do not to cover my mouth with my hand. Or grin at him like the Joker just to see him sweat. It’s a toss-up at the moment.
Unfortunately, he decides to take the seat across from me,which means I’ll have to look at him at least a little or make it obvious that I’m avoiding him. Damn it.
I’ve managed not to be in a room with August since my high school graduation. Yet, in a little less than an hour, it’s like he’s suddenly become unavoidable. Glancing at the windows where the rainstorm still rages on, I wonder again if I’ve entered an alternate universe.
When I move to set a napkin on my lap, I find him watching me, a moue of discontent marring his perfect lips.Yeah, well, too bad. I’m more uncomfortable, buddy.
As if he hears my inner monologue, those pretty lips quirk and the corners of his eyes crinkle. He gives me a look that’s not quite apologetic but definitely self-deprecating. The longer I stare, the more his smile grows. A flush works its way under my knit top and up my thighs. Despite my current anti-smile stance, I want to grin and laugh with him. It’s weird. Aside from when we were little kids, we’ve never held meaningful eye contact this long before. He’s never smiled at me like this before.
I would remember that. Mainly because that would have been the day I melted into a puddle of incoherent goo. Events like that tend to get marked in my mental calendar.
“Wine, Penny?”
Margo’s question jerks me back into present company. I blink for a second before accepting a glass of Chardonnay. This time, I do not look August’s way.
Soon, I forget to be flustered. It’s impossible when eating with the Lucks; they’re too boisterous, happily chatting about anything and everything. While Margo’s kids love and respect her, they talk to her in the same way I do with my mom: like a good friend. I wonder if it’s because Margo and Mom are best friends and raised all of us similarly.
March tells us stories about his teammates and how they covered some linebacker named George in red body paint when he was foolish enough to pass out during a party. George had retaliated by slowly replacing all their underwear with a size too small.
“I’m going to miss those guys next year,” he finishes with a sigh.
June and I exchange a look and suppress our snickers.
