“—plays pickleball, she showed me a picture,” my mom continues. “She claims it’s trendy for people your age. I just can’t see why. Do you play pickleball, Salinger? Oh dear,” she adds before he can answer, “what happened to you?”
Salinger looks down at the red scrapes on his chest. From my nails.
“Not really sure,” he lies. His hand clasps briefly on my ankle.
“It could be bedbugs. Do you travel a lot for work, Sal?”
“More than I’d like.”
“You poor thing. Mandy, I hope you’re taking good care of him. He works hard to support you.”
“No, Mom, he literally doesn’t support me.” My teeth are clenched so hard, I’m going to get a migraine.
“I’m buying you dinner, remember.” Salinger looks over his shoulder, a smile playing around his mouth.
“I thought you were supposed to be a rude asshole. Just hang up,” I hiss in his ear.
“Mandy,” my mom chides. “Salinger’s not rude—he’s a very nice boy.”
Salinger’s lip catches in his teeth.
“Now, Sal,” she says. “You’re coming for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you? You liked those rolls I made last time. Don’t worry—no one’s going to give you a hard time that you’re dating my daughter. Between you and me, we’dtake anyone she brought home, but you’re far better than anything we hoped for.”
I’m poking him in the ribs, hoping he gets the hint to decline the invitation.
“Mandy, leave that man alone. Stop poking him,” my mother scolds. “He’s already got European bedbug bites. Run him an oatmeal bath and wash his clothes. None of that cold-water nonsense. Use the highest setting on the washing machine plus bleach. You need to take better care of his luggage when he comes back. Buy a bedbug oven. When you come for dinner, I’ll let you borrow ours. I bought it when Mandy’s father and I did our trip to Belgium.”
“Mom! He doesn’t want to come for dinner.”
“Of course he wants a home-cooked meal. What is he going to eat?”
Salinger is nodding along.
“I don’t know, Mom—he only has a private chef. Sounds like he’s going to starve to death.”
“A private chef! You can’t trust people you don’t know with your food. It’s not like when family cooks for you.”
There’s chaos in the background. “Don’t mansplain the phone to me!” Gran complains. “I did press those two buttons.”
Half of my dad’s face slides into the screen.
I’m dying. I’m dead right now.
My boss smiles. “Mr. Miller.”
“Salinger,” my dad says mildly. There’s the telltale click of a screenshot being produced. “Can’t stop and chat. Have to get back to my World War II documentary.”
“Is it the new Elias Winston series?” Salinger asks.
My father beams.
Now Iwantto die.
“It’s remarkable what they did to restore that footage,” Salinger says conversationally, like I’m not naked and cold next to him. “What episode are you on?”
“Halfway through five.”
Salinger nods. “Wait until you get to the Battle of Schwarzbergstadt. It’s unreal how the Fifty-Third managed to pull off that maneuver.”
