“I brought some games to play on our trip,” Mom says in a way too excited tone.
Jonah leans forward like he’s interested. Of course he is. “What kind of games?”
“Your dad said you guys used to play games where you’d draw a question out of a cup.”
Jonah groans. “Not that game.”
“It was fun,” George insists.
“Anyway,” Mom says, holding up a cup. “I found some random questions on the internet. Do you guys want to play?”
Maybe if I pretend I’m listening to music, I can get away with not playing. But the truth is that I’m interested in hearing Jonah’s answers.
He rubs the back of his neck, and I can’t help but follow the path of his fingers as they scrub the fine hair on his nape. There are a few freckles sprinkled at the base. I’m busy cataloging every single one when he turns around.
He catches me staring at him and his smile widens. “Vivian wants to play.”
I lean forward and keep my voice low. “Vivian does not want to play.”
He smirks and turns back. “If I have to play, Vivian has to play.”
The air-conditioning doesn’t reach the back, which is usually great. But with the heat now prickling my neck, I really need it.
The questions should be simple, like “What’s your favorite color?” or “What’s your favorite television show?” or something else equally asinine, but I have too many memories of being shut down. Told I was being childish. Or worse.
“Come on, bro,” Jonah coaxes.
“Don’t call me that.” But everyone is looking at me. Even George through the rearview mirror. “Fiiine,” I whine. “I’ll play.”
Mom claps her hands, and I can’t be upset if it makes her happy. She’s rarely happy these days.
“It was Dad’s idea, so I think he should go first,” Jonah says with a smirk.
“Bring it on.” George gives us a look in the mirror like he’s going to wipe the floor with us. And now I know where Jonah gets it from.
Mom holds the red cup, and George pulls out the slip of paper. I keep my eyes on both of them. No way is this random. Since George is driving, Mom reads it for him. “What’s your favorite vacation memory?”
“So far? The pizza party last night.”
Mom laughs fondly. “George, it has to be from a different vacation.”
“Why?” he asks. “Show me where it says that in the rules.”
At her look, he sighs. “Fine. When Jonah was seven, we went on a fishing trip in southern Missouri with my dad. I loved that trip.”
“Me too,” Jonah says quietly.
His voice is filled with sadness. Is it because his grandpa died? Or is this about his mom? Was she on the trip with them? I almost ask if the rules allow follow-up questions, but then I remember it’ll be my turn soon.
“Who’s next?” Mom glances around. Both Jonah and I are sinking into our seats.
“Me!” Maisy says, trying to grab the cup. “My turn!” Mom hands Jonah the cup, and he angles it so Maisy can grab a slip of paper.
“Here, I’ll read it for you.”
Maisy pushes Jonah’s hand away. “No. My turn.” She then pretends to read the words. “What is your favoritest ice cream?”
She puts her chin in her hand exactly the way Mom does when she’s thinking. We could all answer this question for her.
