Jake laughs at my dad’s lame jokes, and they talk about the economy, which Jake knows a lot about, probably because his father gives him no choice. Unlike my parents, he’s expected to take over a position in his family’s business, even after receiving his inheritance.
If he wants the money he’s been waiting years to get, it comes with strings attached, but Jake is trying to find a way to get out of it. I’m only hoping he’ll figure it out soon.
“I’m so happy you brought Jake along,” my mom leans in and says quietly across our large dining room table, where we’re all huddled in a corner of our cozy townhouse on the Upper East Side.
“He was coming to see his parents, and I’m not one to turn down a free ride instead of taking the bus.”
My mom smiles. “He’s always welcome here.” She loves Jake like a son and understands his family’s situation. Although she would never blame my friend for their behavior, she’d go crazy if they had to spend time with his parents beyond the small talk at events.
“Okay, now I’m full.” I drop my fork loudly to halt Dad and Jake’s conversation about baseball.
“Did you like the Shiraz?” Dad asks just as I take my last sip.
“It paired perfectly with the pasta.” I grin, and he gives me a proud nod. His salt-and-pepper hair bounces with the bob of his head, as the same-colored eyes as mine go back to look at Jake. I seem to have gotten my looks from both my parents. When people meet my mother, who has blonde hair and brown eyes, they say I look just like her, until they see my dad. Then they realize we share the same eye color and smile. Although both of them are much taller than I am. I’m still not sure which side of the family my height came from.
“Why don’t you stay over, Jacob? You can have your pick of the guest bedrooms.” Dad turns to Mom, who smiles and insists he stay as well. Jake hates staying at his parents’ house, and theyboth know it. The townhouse has six bedrooms, including mine and my parents’. He has multiple choices, but usually picks the one two doors down from mine when he stays overnight. Usually, when he’s too drunk to go home on his own.
“Yeah, stay. I’ll make us some hot chocolate.” I point to the kitchen. He doesn’t look completely convinced, and I roll my eyes. “I’ll add some bourbon.”
He shrugs. “How can I say no to that?”
“I want in,” Mom says.
“Same here,” Dad follows.
“We drink too much,” I mumble.
“What’s that, Pumpkin?” Dad asks, but he clearly heard me.
“Nothing!”
After we finish cleaning the table and leave the dishwasher running, I start to whip up the hot chocolates. Jake, Mom, and Dad are now in the living room, which is next to the dining room and across from the kitchen, separated by only a small section of the wall. I tune out their conversation about the holidays and finish heating the milk for the hot chocolate.
Standing on my tiptoes, I reach for three of our standard mugs and my pumpkin-shaped one, which my dad bought after he gave me that nickname. It’s the one I use every autumn once it starts getting chilly. As I take out the container of the best hot chocolate money can buy, Grayson comes to the forefront of my mind.
It’s been two days since I last saw him on Thursday for his lab. I don’t think he’s keeping track of how many I’ve attended at this point, and is letting me take advantage of the three weeks we have left for my research. When the lecture ended, he didn’t call me over or say hello. In fact, he hasn’t texted me since Thursday, and that was only to ask me about the pictures, which, as I suspected, came out great, especially the candids.
Grabbing the jigger to measure the bourbon for each mug, I hear the buzz of my phone right next to me on the counter.
Taking a peek, my eyes narrow.
G: Hey, what are you up to tonight?
It’s as if he heard me from eighty-five miles away.
I check the time and see that it’s a little past eight.
Snorting to myself, I set the bottle of bourbon down and glance behind me to find my parents and Jake deep in conversation. I quickly snap a picture of the bourbon with the mugs of hot chocolate in front of it, and hit send.
Me: Spending some time with my parents in Manhattan.
I lock my phone and pour the liquor into the first mug, stirring it well. Thankfully, all the cups are still letting out a ton of steam because I heated the milk a bit longer than I should’ve. And that is why I don’t cook.
My phone screen lights up again.
G: That’s some good bourbon. I’m guessing the pumpkin one is yours?
Me: How’d you know?
