“That’s nice,” Mom says. Ben kisses her cheek and tells us he’s going to join them. With a wave to me that is a hello and a goodbye, he exits.
Mom stares, heart-eyed, at his retreating back. “He is so handsome.”
Sienna and I share a look, silently warningGird your loins.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“And a real man in bed, you know?”
“Gross, Mother.” Oops. That was out loud. What is with me today?
She frowns at me. “You’re grown now, Paisley. I’d like to be able to talk to you like we’re girlfriends.”
I want to tell her how dysfunctional that is, but the fear of losing her keeps me from speaking up. I already have one parent who can barely stand me. I’m not going for two out of two.
“Sorry, Mom. Please, detail how he rings your bell.”
“We’ll save that for later when we’ve had wine.”
Please, no. Any filter she has disintegrates when alcohol is involved.
She sidesteps me and Sienna and walks all the way into the kitchen. “I’ll get started on lunch.”
Spencerand the triplets have set the table with bone-colored soup bowls and shiny silver spoons. A bottle of red and a bottle of white sits in the center of the table, to the left of the enameled stockpot and ladle.
My mom, hips pressed to the edge of the table for leverage, lifts the lid off the pot. The fragrance of tomatoes and spices, the briny scent of crab permeates the room.
She breathes deeply, audibly, and sighs a happy, “Mmm.”
Ben rubs a hand absentmindedly over her backside. My brother sees this happen and looks away.
A stab of sympathy assails me. Does their behavior upset him? Likely.
Mom ladles soup into everyone’s bowls. Grandma pours wine. To Klein, Mom says, “I hope you like it. Imade this at least once a week every summer when my kids were growing up.”
Klein looks down at the mixture, his eyebrows tugging.
I fill my spoon halfway, lifting it midair and pretending I’m going to feed him. “You’ve probably never heard of it before, I know I haven’t seen it on restaurant menus in Scottsdale, but?—”
Klein leans away from my spoon. “What is that?”
I freeze. “Crab soup.”
Klein shakes his head. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
Oh shit.
I drop my spoon in my bowl. The entire table sends me one long, accusatory look. “You didn’t think to mention your boyfriend’s shellfish allergy to me, Paisley?” my mother huffs.
“I... I?—”
“She must’ve forgot.” Klein relaxes his posture, pressing back into his chair. “We don’t go to seafood restaurants on our dates. Landlocked state, and all. Not a lot of opportunities for my allergy to come up.”
Mom nods slowly, regarding me with shrewd eyes. “Well Paisley, you’ll have to miss out on your favorite soup. Can’t have you eating it and then kissing Klein.”
I grab two dinner rolls, trying to shake off the embarrassment. “More carbs for me.”
“Hah,” Spencer snorts. “Paisley tried to kill her boyfriend.”
