“No.And I feel targeted,” I mumble, browsing a list of fictional houses in literature. Avery and my mom chuckle, while my dad casts me an agreeing glance.
“Definitely targeted,” he adds. “You got anything good?”
I shake my head, scrolling past illustration after illustration of complex, architectural disasters. I flash him the screen. “Not unless you want to make a mansion.”
“You can’t do the Gatsby mansion; I’m already doing that,” Avery cuts in. I blink.
“Youare going to buildthat?” I ask, holding the screen out to face him. His amber eyes flick to the photo, then back to me, expression unwavering.
“Yes.”
“I amso fucked,” I mutter, continuing to scroll. But only a few moments later, something catches my eye. It’s a drawing of a circular door, planted into the side of a tiny hill. My chesttightens, and I tilt my head, studying it. Something about it is strangely familiar.
Where have I seen this door before? I scroll back up an inch, reading the caption.
Lord of the Rings: Hobbit House
A smile breaks across my face. It’s perfect. Asymmetrical, kind of lopsided, and just low enough to the ground that I won’t have to worry about structural integrity. I flash my dad a coy smile.
“You’re on your own, Pops.”
Dad sulks. He, too, has yet to earn bragging rights.
The kitchen fills with the scent of cloves and molasses as we roll out the dark, spicy dough and catch up on everything we’ve missed since the last time we were all together. We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and I had a mountain of homework over break anyway, so I haven’t seen them since September.
Avery, as usual, doesn’t talk much. He’s too busy taking a ruler to his stretch of dough and cutting out perfectly even shapes. This isn’t a competition to him. It’s an assignment. He takes it as seriously as he takes his job.
And he takes his jobveryseriously.
My mom dives into the latest releases from her hockey-fan boutique, a small business she started a few years ago that exploded. Perks of being a formerWAG. She scrolls through photos on her phone, parading new embroidered hoodies and limited-edition decals she paid Avery’s roommate to design. Afterwards, my dad confesses his new life as an unemployed empty nester. After he retired from the NHL, he coached Greenrock Valley’s Bantam league, up until last year when he quit out of boredom. Said he wanted to try something new.
I don’t think it’s working.
“I never thought I’d be passionate about bread,” he rambles. “But once you name it, it’s hard not to get attached.”
I tilt my head, tossing it toward the kitchen. “Are you talking about that jar ofguckon the counter?”
He scowls. “Don’t talk about Flower that way.”
I squeeze the inner corners of my eyes with my thumb and index finger. “Did you name your sourdough starter afterMarc-André Fleury?”
Hitching a shoulder, he runs his palm over his tamed beard. ”He’s resilient.”
“You havegotto find a new hobby.”
He beams, pinching a bit of flour between his fingers and tossing it at me. I squeal, batting it off as my mom chimes in.
“So what about you, Peyton? How have you been?” she asks. Before I can respond, Avery adds:
“Yeah, why’d you bulldoze that ref on Friday?”
My dad’s eyes flick to me. Then my mom’s. Then they flick to each other, and I watch the silent exchange like it’s a tennis match, hisAre we doing this?battling herDon’t look at me.
Classic Clarkes.
They weren’t planning on discussing it. I figured as much. If they were, my mom would’ve led with it the second I walked through the door.
Thanks, Avery.
