It should be interesting since Billy has very specific ideas on gastronomy—his word, not mine. I know what it means, but who actually uses it? And who uses it to argue with their significant other’s parents upon first meeting?
Billy—that’s who.
Sam is noticeably quiet through the whole thing. And that bothers me. She’s always been opinionated, vocal, and the last one of us to worry about keeping the peace. Her standing down to let some man take on Dad regarding barbecuing comes off… odd. Very.
I’m the peacekeeper. I’m the smoother-over. And even I am uncomfortable.
“So are we doing anything tomorrow? How are we celebrating?”
Dad’s face shows relief. Billy looks appalled at the change of subject. Strider sits up a little taller.
“I hadn’t really thought of anything, but we could do a Segway tour,” my brother starts.
I laugh and throw my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. Sorry.” I wave. “I’m trying to picture the six of us meandering through Peoria on Segways and all staying upright. I can barely walk upright.”
“Executive decision. That’s what I want. All of us to betogether and attempt it.” He pulls out his phone, clicking through. He sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth as he thinks. He’s done that my whole life. It’s endearing if not silly. “Done. Reservation for six. Eleven-thirty, starting at the brewery for a beer.”
“We’re going to need it,” Dad says under his breath.
“I can’t imagine riding one. After beer, there’s no way. But I’ll be there.” Mom smiles that indulgent smile that she always gives her son.
“We— Well, we have plans,” Sam starts.
“Not tomorrow, you don’t.” Dad’s tone brooks no argument. “Tomorrow is your brother’s birthday. If he wants to watch us tumble to the concrete, that’s what we’re doing.”
Sam looks to Billy and back to Dad. “But?—”
“Nobuts. You can have your plans on Sunday or be done by eleven-thirty.”
Sam tenses and bites her lip. Billy opens his mouth, but Mom gets there first. “Who wants Hello Dollies? I made them fresh this morning.” She stands to clear the table.
“I do.” I don’t. They’re way too sweet, but the tension is brutal and I want out of this conversation. I stand and collect plates from my brother, sister, Billy, and Dad.
“Sounds great, Mom,” Strider says.
“Sounds lovely, Diane.”
I kiss Dad’s cheek as I pass, all the while my sister glowers.
What in the world is going on with her?
I wake the next morning with a weird feeling in my gut. This isn’t normal for me. It’s a dread-doom mix, and I can’t seem to shake it.
I tried texting Liam last night. When there was no response, I called. I called five separate times, despite how desperate it looked or how increasingly anxious I felt. The phone didn’t ring. I’d dial, and his voicemail would pick-up immediately. Leave itto my husband to not even personalize his outgoing message. So I don’t even have his voice to comfort me. Not unless I listen to the only one he’s ever left me. It’s laced with innuendo and oozes sex.
I’m agitated enough that the frustration rattles through my body like it’s being shaken to combine. I’m stressed enough that I do what I never thought I would.
Me: Sorry for the early morning text. Have you heard from Liam?
Me: I promise we’ll start conversations another way than this. You worried or me worried.
Ayla: Why are you worried? And I was up. Sophia decided she doesn’t need rest like her mama.
Me: I’m in Illinois. Liam dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning. He didn’t mention plans in particular. But he isn’t responding to texts, and his phone goes directly to voicemail.
Ayla: He didn’t go with you?
Dang. How do I explain?
