“All good,” he says. “Thank you for your ready willingness.”
“As always,” she says with a slight eye roll. “Are you planning any other surprises, or can we put these away?”
“Best not,” I tell her. “You never know.”
“I heard that!” my dad calls.
“Good,” says Susan as I take both placemats and stash them just inside the kitchen, where they won’t ruin the ambience but will still be within easy reach. Then I turn back to the table and resume what I was doing: judging its aesthetics.
It’s nothing particularly fancy. I wouldn’t call it, like, a tablescape, but my dad is hosting a dinner party for his bride-to-be and her son, so I figured I’d make it look nice with two smallvases of those little round vine flowers Dad’s got growing in the back and a bigger vase with crepe myrtle blooms in the center. If I’d thought of it, I’d have stopped somewhere for flowers on the way over, butDagger Legacy III: The Fortress of Nightis shipping in two months, so it’s a miracle I managed to leave work by five.
“Wait,” I ask, still looking at the table. “Who’s the sixth person?”
“You,” calls my dad.
“Is Mom coming?” I ask. “She didn’t mention it.”
My parents, who’ve been divorced for nearly twenty-six years, have been good friends for most of that time. I was too young when they split to really remember what they were like when they were together, but they’ve independently assured me that they made a truly terrible couple. It made for an odd time growing up. My parents had the most stable, functional relationship of any adults I knew, but teachers and guidance counselors liked to worry over me coming from abroken home.
“Paloma’s bringing her sons,” Susan says. “Your father didn’t tell you? GERALD, YOU FORGOT TO TELL HER!”
“I told you!” he shouts. He didn’t, but I’m not going to die on this hill.
“I thought it was just Bastien,” I say, walking into the kitchen. Dad’s at the stove, stirring something, wearing his prizedKiss the Cookapron. I’m pretty sure that thing is older than me.
“The older one’s visiting this week,” he says. “That’s why we’re having this shindig in the first place, so he can meet the family.”
I grab a fork from the drying rack and snag a green bean from the stove. My dad swats at me half-heartedly but misses. I blow on it over the sink.
“The one who was in rehab?”
“He’s in school for graphic design and lives somewhere south of Roanoke in one of those charming mountain towns,” my dad says, giving me a look. “Apparently he’s also an artist who’s working on some kind of sculpture series that Paloma doesn’t quite understand. No idea whatthat’slike.”
I ignore that last bit. My naval engineer dad is perfectly capable of understanding video games and simply chooses not to. It would take him, like, a day or two to get the hang of them, which I keeptellinghim, and he keeps interrupting me to extol the virtues of the slide rule or whatever.
“Does Charming Mountain-Town Artist Whose Past I Will Not Bring Up have a name?”
“Javier,” my dad says. My head involuntarily jerks up, but he’s still talking, his back to me. “And her daughter’s name is Thalia, just in case you want to score brownie points by remembering that.”
It takes a second for my mild panic to subside, and I’m glad he’s not looking at me because he’d notice and then he’d ask me what was wrong and I’d have to make something up. I’m not the best liar, especially to my parents. Growing up, I was a good kid and they were pretty chill, so I never got into the habit, and now it’s probably too late.
But the panic only lasts a moment because it’s obviously notthatJavier. If it werethatJavier, there’s no way I wouldn’t know because I’m pretty sure the awkwardness would have ripped a hole in the time-space continuum by now. Or something.
Besides, I’ve met Paloma a whole bunch of times. She’s a lovely, polite woman, and there’s a zero percent chance that misterI like your pretty little clitis related to her. Which is good because I still use that night as masturbation fodder all the time and having my future stepmom involved would be kind of a boner-killer.
“Javier, Thalia, Bastien,” I say. “Got it.”
“Not that you need brownie points, of course,” my dad says.
“I like having them.”
“I know,” he says, and then the doorbell rings.
“Shit,” I say around my last bite of green bean. “They areprompt.”
“You know Paloma.”
“Mmph,” I say, chewing, then stealing the towel on my dad’s shoulder to wipe my mouth. He frowns but doesn’t stop me. “I’ll go get it.”
