“Well?”
I glance from my plate, the grilled chicken drier than the middle of the desert.
My dad’s knife screeches as he cuts into his piece, Beck snorting quietly from beside me.
“How is he doing?” Dad asks.
He as inBastard–I mean, Rome.
“It’s good.” The lie flows effortlessly. “We’ve been working out the kinks in the sim and getting to know each other. He’s starting to catch on to my terminology.”
He hates me and disagrees with everything I say.
And if by getting to know each other means bickering the majority of the time, questioning adjustments made on his car, and driving me mad to the point that I had three Diet Cokes yesterday instead of one…then yeah, I’m telling the truth.
Van pipes in. “Good, because if you two show anything but a unified front tomorrow at the gala, the media will use it to their advantage, and Pierce Racing will have a ball with it.”
I kick Van under the table.
He jerks, his eyes flying to mine.
No stress for Dad, remember?
“Daddy!” Vivian stresses. “You owe a dollar.”
Noah chuckles. “Pay up, big bro.”
Van pulls a dollar out of his wallet. It lands on the middle of the table, and Vivian smiles happily.
Beck leans toward her and whispers something in her ear. Her face lights up, the bright green color of her eyes filled with eager excitement.
Next thing I know, Beck is elbowing Graham, and Vivan’s laugh fills the dining room.
“What the hell was that for?” Graham wheezes.
Beck high-fives our niece.
“Uncle Gam,” she stresses, using the same name she’s called him for years. “You owe a dollar too.”
“There’s our little go-getter.” Dad chuckles and leans forward to ruffle her hair.
The doorbell rings, and surprisingly, he stands up first to get it.
“Expecting someone?” Van questions.
My mom begins getting a plate ready, the last piece of grilled chicken that none of us are sad to see gone placed in front of the chair next to Noah. He looks to it and then to the rest of us.
Dad’s voice carries down the hall and into the dining room. “Come on in. Rose saved you a plate.”
“Who is it?” Noah asks Beck, who is leaned so far back on his chair that the wood creaks beneath his weight.
“What the actual fuck,” Beck whispers angrily.
“Uncle Beck!” Vivian shakes her head, the braids I gave her swinging back and forth. “Now you owe a dollar too!”
His chair snaps back to the floor, his fist clenched on top of the table.
My dad rounds the corner first, only to be followed closely by the very last person I want to see.
