I roll my eyes, and the movement immediately makes me think of Cecily. She performs the motion with gusto. Pizzazz. Like she means it.
"Her family is a disaster," I say, raking my hand down my face. "Her grandma is the only one I like so far, and even she is not totally sane. She's great, don't get me wrong, but she's a handful." Am I going to hell for speaking ill of someone we know is dying soon? I'm not really speaking ill of Savage Grandma. Everything I've said is true.
"Lucky for you, you've signed yourself up for nonstop fun and a backstage pass to the Hampton family circus." Klein speaks jovially, and I bet he wishes he could accompany me as my silent sidekick, taking notes for a future novel.
"Oh, and get this—" I snap my mouth shut. I'd been about to say Cecily's family is secretly filthy rich, but my brain stopped me. Saved me, really. Cecily must have a reason for not divulging this piece of information. The woman drives that death trap of a vehicle when she could be riding around in something that at least has four doors. Four windows. Better air conditioning. Less road noise. Fewer chances of being hit by road debris.
Have I mentioned I despise her car?
"What were you going to say?" Klein asks, taking the second to last turn to reach my parents' house.
"Never mind." I shake my head.
He lets it go, pressing the forward button on his phone to skip the next song. "Why are you refusing to get an annulment until after the road trip?"
"Cecily needs someone on that trip with her. After meeting her family today, that much is obvious."
"Fair, and also very self-sacrificing of you. But you don't need to be married to accomplish that goal."
"Refusing the annulment until after the road trip was really just to piss Cecily off. She rises to the occasion pretty easily, and since she was being unpleasant, I matched her."
"How mature of you," Klein says sarcastically.
"I know, I know. There's something about her that makes me act in ways I normally wouldn't. She gets under my skin."
Klein glances at me, the red light we're stopped at reflecting in his sunglasses. "Cecily gets under your skin?"
"Not like that." Or, you know,exactlylike that.
Klein chuckles, just once. A smug sound. "A hundred bucks," he says. "A hundred bucks says you fall in love with Cecily on this road trip."
"And Cecily? You don't want to bet she will fall in love with me?"
Klein snorts, open hand waiting between us. "No way. Cecily wishes she'd never met you."
True. But that doesn't explain the way the pulse in her neck strums faster when she's sparring with me. It's not the adrenaline from arguing, because I'd bet my last dollar Cecily is a calm fighter. Cecily gets under my skin, but I get under hers, too. It's a truth I feel in the marrow of my bones.
"I'll take your bet, Klein, and I look forward to the moment you press two crisp Benjamins in my palm."
"One," he corrects. The light turns green, and he makes the final left turn into my parents' neighborhood.
"Two. You still owe me money from the Paisley bet."
"What bet?" He winks at me, pulling up to my parents' latest home. The playfulness disappears from his face. "You ready?" he asks.
He knows I love my parents. He also knows what it feels like to be conflicted, and resentful, and altogether mutilated by their life choices.
Klein gets to send his complicated feelings toward a ghost shaped like his father. But not me. The people who raised me, who sent me out into the world with baggage, are still present. They want to see me. They expect to see me. And despite it all, I love them.
One isn't better than the other. In fact, they are equally disturbing.
As is Cecily's family. All the money in the world, and though they're as different as night and day from mine, they have one common denominator: dysfunction.
The house smells like my parents, but also like fresh cleaner. Pine-Sol, the original scent. I've been here once before, on my last visit. They signed a one-year lease, but that doesn't mean much to my parents. Or my dad, at least. If my mother didn't have my dad, she might be more stable. Long-term home, and job.
"Dominic," my mom says, smiling at me. Her hair is almost entirely gray. Early, I think, and probably due to stress. She wraps me in a hug, and mostly I feel love for her. But there's that old flash of resentment, and the guilt that attaches itself to the resentment like a barnacle. My mom was always very good at loving me, but not so great at creating security.
The same is true for my dad.
