“Oh, Winnie, he needs more salad.” Her mom is back. She spreads out her napkin. “So, Fitz,” she begins. “Why are you still single? A rich, good-looking man like you?”
“Just haven’t found the perfect woman.” Lies. She’s sitting right next to me.
“Any woman would be lucky to have you.”
“My wife hit me with her car. That’s how we met.” Mark smiles happily.
“Honey, you’re a good driver.”
“I bet you don’t need to drive yourself anywhere, Fitz,” Mark tells me.
“Man owns the football team—he can do whatever the hell he wants,” Frances declares.
“I’ll get you all tickets,” I offer.
“Perks!” Winnie’s granny cheers. “See, Kathy?” Her grandmother turns to the mascara-smudged girl moping back into the dining room, blowing her nose. “This is why you can’t keep shitting the bed.”
“Winnie wouldn’t go on a date with him either,” Kathy complains.
“I’m trying to help you out,” Winnie screeches.
“Don’t mind me. I love being objectified.” I smirk up at her.
“Eat your salad.” She picks up the empty bottle of wine and curses then sets it back down. She disappears then returns from the kitchen and sets down a platter of beautifully pan-seared white fish in the center of the table. Winnie adds an aggressive flourish of lemon and parsley.
“I can’t believe you wanted to waste this on Logan, Creampuff.”
“…staying for you, Winnie,” Kathy whispers to her sister as they head back to the butler’s pantry.
I dig into the meal with relish.
“That man knows how to eat your fish, Winnie,” her granny quips.
I’m choking on the dinner when Fidget comes back in with another bottle of wine in her mouth. She sets it carefully in my lap.
“No, the 2019, Fidget,” Winnie says then turns back to arguing with her sister.
Coughing into my napkin, I stand up and crane my neck. I watch Fidget go to the wine fridge, open it, paw at the bottles and select another, and replace it with the one Winnie sent back.
“She’s shit the bed on every single date I set up,” Winnie complains to her mom.
“Now is not the time and place. We have aguest.” April is incensed.
“We don’t have a guest. He’s an interloper.”
“Finally. Thank you, Fidget.” Winnie pours wine into my glass, hovering too close. “Drink the rest of that.”
I want to drag her wrist to my mouth.
I don’t.
The dog drops a bag of flour on my nuts.
I wheeze.
“Fidget,” Winnie yells, “I told you to stay out of the cupboard.” The dog tosses a box of caramels on top of the flour. “I’ll take that.” Winnie’s fingers are so close to my crotch.
“Fidget wants butterscotch blondie brownies.” Kathy sighs, returning to the table with more bread. Freshly baked.
