“Drunk,” he says promptly. He folds his arms and grimaces. “But it’s depressing you started with something that reflects so badly on me.”
“That’s it?” I say after a surprised pause. “You were drunk?”
“I was messy drunk,” he corrects me. “In public. In the middle of the road, to be exact.”
My nose wrinkles, and I don’t try to smooth my expression. “Ew.”
He nods. “Indeed.”
“You can be an open book all you want,” I say, “but you should consider keeping some things to yourself.”
“I’ve heard women don’t like when men keep secrets.”
“Women don’t like when mendothings they feel the need to keep secret,” I say. “But I don’t think that’s a gender thing. I think that applies to everyone.”
He hums again, thoughtfully now. “You’re probably right.” Then, after a beat of silence, he says, “So you’re not going to ask about the rest of the letters?”
“Nope,” I say, and I’m proud of myself for facing the filing cabinets with casualness and confidence. “Not even one question. I’m going to work on these a bit more, and then I’m going home.”
And somehow I’m not surprised by his answer, maybe because he says it a lot. I can even picture the careless shrug of his shoulders as he speaks:
“Suit yourself.”
His footsteps disappear out of the room behind me, and he doesn’t appear again while I’m there. He doesn’t even respond when I yell that I’m leaving for the day.
When I goto dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday evening, I’ve already decided not to tell them about the financial mess that’s been dropped in my lap. I won’t tell them, and I won’t feel an ounce of regret about keeping it to myself.
I don’t need them worrying about me. I don’t need to strain my dad’s heart, and I don’t need my mom to panic.
Interestingly enough, however, the atmosphere is still a little off.
My mom, much like Juliet, goes through cooking phases every now and then. She’s not a stress baker like Jules; it’s more that she gets excited about cooking, and so she tries a bunch of new recipes all at once, and then she makes us taste them.
The problem is that while my mom is an excellent baker, she’s less gifted at cooking. I don’t know how it’s possible to be good at one and bad at the other, but she manages. So when all four of us and our parents are seated around the kitchen table and my mom begins bringing out dishes we’ve never seen, we all get a little nervous.
A muscle jumps in Cyrus’s otherwise impassive face. India’s lips twist into a little grimace. Juliet and I look at each other with disconcertion.
And then the battle begins.
Because we have a very specific routine for dinners like this.
I shoot a look at Cyrus, who shakes his head firmly, his jaw tightening further. When my look turns into a glare, Jules and India look at him too. He’s now gritting his teeth so hard they might shatter, and beneath the table, he aims a well-placed kick at my ankle.
I hiss in pain as my eyes fill with tears, and then I kick him back. Meanwhile Juliet and India have slid down in their chairs in a vain attempt to reach Cyrus’s legs so that they too can kick him, but to no avail; they flail around for a second before?—
“Ouch!” my dad says, startling as his brow furrows in pain.
We all stop kicking immediately and adopt facial expressions of casual ease. India’s is most convincing; Juliet’s is the least. Cyrus’s eyes are still narrowed on me, but he’s relaxed his jaw.
“Who’s kicking?” my dad says now, looking around at us. His normally good-natured face has a little frown on it now.
Juliet falls on that grenade for us, which is probably best, because she can’t keep a poker face. “That was me,” she says. “Sorry.”
Our dad’s expression clears, and he chuckles. “Be careful down there. You’ll kick my legs clean off.”
She offers a weak smile and then looks around at the rest of us, her shoulders falling in resignation when she spots the apologetic expressions on my face and India’s. Even Cyrus offers her a sympathetic grimace.
But she was the first to show weakness this time. It may as well be her.
