“See?” He jabs a thumb in my direction, giving Mom a look. “Shethought it was funny.”
While Dad and I riff onWizard of Ozand Thanksgiving crossover jokes (green beans and corn bread and yams, oh pie!), Mom goes full real estate appraisal on the house. She twists one of the blue pillar candles in the center of the countertop, examining the wick to be sure I didn’t forget these are for decoration, never for lighting. “It doesn’t look too bad in here,” she finally admits.
“Yeah, you can hardly tell I had a huge rager here last night.” I look to Dad, hoping he’ll hop on my joke, but the sheer sense of panic emanating from Mom keeps him from saying a word. She freezes in place, only her head pivoting toward me for a quick sarcasm scan.
“You didn’t.”
“Literally who would I invite?”
“Kat? And Kat’s boyfriend?” She’s white-knuckling the handle of her suitcase, but I’m not ready to drop the joke yet.
“I don’t think Kat and Kat’s boyfriend qualifies as a party,” I point out.
Dad interrupts with a guttural laugh. “Tell that to Kat and Kat’s boyfriend!” When Mom shoots him dagger eyes, he puts up his hands in defense and backs away, returning to the safety of keeping his mouth shut.
“There was no party,” I reassure her. “I’m joking. I had Kat over one night, but Daniel didn’t even come in.”
“Daniel and Kat. Kat and Daniel.” Mom releases her grip on her suitcase and turns their names over and over, practicingemphasizing one name and then the other. “What’s the verdict on him?”
“I like him. He’s…patient.”
She raises an eyebrow at my choice of descriptors, but we breeze past it and into the other details of my weekend, although they’re few and far between. I focus on the success of the reopening, which impresses them enough to ward off any questions about how I spent my Thanksgiving. I’m halfway through recounting Brooklyn’s nicknames for our regulars when RuPaul’s voice interrupts, unleashing some harsh but fair criticism onto a queen who, from the sound of it, stands little chance at becoming America’s Next Drag Superstar.
“Jesus.” Mom fans her fingers across her chest while I fumble for the remote and hit mute. “I thought somebody broke in.”
“Nah, just RuPaul.” I smile sheepishly, feeling embarrassed for no reason I can pinpoint. “Tell me more about Florida.”
Mom blinks at me, then at Dad, then back at me. “Actually, we do have something kind of fun to share.” Her off-putting, ultrasaccharine smile must be contagious, because seconds later, Dad is giving me the same one.
“We did a little shopping,” Dad explains.
“Yeah?” I take a backward grip on the counter behind me, bracing myself for a retelling of the discount golf shirt story. Were they really so drunk on Thanksgiving that they don’t remember telling me?
“Some big shopping.” Dad loops an arm around Mom’s waist, creating a united front. “We put an offer in on a condo.”
My eyebrows hop up my forehead and back. “Yeah?” I knewmy family hadThanksgiving in Floridamoney, but havingsecond property in Floridamoney is news to me.
“It’s the cutest little spot, right on Sanibel Island. A two-bedroom, but it’s only got the one bath.” Mom digs into her purse while she talks, fishing out her phone. “We had to make a few compromises to get the location we wanted. Let me pull up the listing. Wait no, better yet.” She pulls her readers out of her purse and situates them on her nose, mouth stretching open as she punches her finger against her phone screen. “We took some video during our showing. Look, here’s your father standing in the shower.”
I shield my eyes with my hands. “Ew, I don’t want to see that.”
Mom is unimpressed, if not a little annoyed. “He’s clothed, Murphy. He’s just showing off how spacious it is.”
“I got a full wingspan in every direction in that thing!” Dad chimes in with a toothy grin, stretching his arms out airplane style to demonstrate.
Mom cozies up beside me and flips her phone horizontal, and I watch the wobbly footage of her walking past coral walls and bright white cabinets. “We’re going to paint, of course,” she says. “The previous owners really made it like you’re living inside a seashell.”
“Did they, uh.” I bite my cheek, searching for the right terminology and realizing that, for a realtor’s daughter, I know shockingly little about real estate. “Like, do you own it yet or?”
“They accepted the offer,” Dad says, putting me out of my misery. “We close on it in a month, so long as everything goes well with the appraisal and there aren’t any hang-ups with the HOA. We’ll just need to liquidate a few assets first.”
I nod along, trying out a smile that suggests I understand even 50 percent of this lingo. Better to fake it than to turn this conversation into a real estate lesson. On Mom’s phone, a sky-blue bathroom comes into view, and, as promised, Dad is standing in the shower with arms spread wide and an even bigger smile than the one he has on now. He looks happier than I’ve seen him in a long time, and while I have dozens of questions—most of them about how much this will cost and whether or not they’ll still have room in the budget to contribute to my college fund—none of that feels relevant right now. Mom and Dad are excited. The least I can do is be excited too.
“This is awesome. We’ll actually be able to actually have a real Thanksgiving in this kitchen.”
“Exactly! See?” Mom purses her lips at Dad, giving him theI told you soeyes. “And I know it’ll be tough with the one bathroom when you come down to visit, but I promise we’ll make it work.”
My chin dips to my chest. “Visit? Wouldn’t we fly down together?” No sooner do the words come out than the blanks start to fill in. Mom and Dad didn’t buy a vacation home; they bought a—
