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“No. It’s fine. I like my sofa.”
“He’s earning his own wage, Denise. He doesn’t need his mother to take him shopping,” Dad cuts in, actually making me grateful to be saved from her guilty pampering. I should know better than to be optimistic, though, because he continues. “If you keep babying him, he’ll be back living here before you know it, and then we’ll be stuck with him forever like those people that never learn to function without their parents doing everything for them. Those… oh, damn it. What do they call that?” He asks no one in particular, squinting in thought under his silvery eyebrows.
“Failure to launch,” Travis supplies without inflection as he studies the food Leonora places on the table.
Dad’s fist pounds the table as he points at Travis. “Yes! Exactly. That.”
I cringe at the off-base comparison. I launched a long time ago, at least, as much as they would let me. I just didn’t launch precisely how Dad would have wanted.
“I was just offering to help. You know I like to decorate.” Mom flashes one of her airy smiles at him. “What if someone from his department comes by? He’ll want to impress his staff.”
Randy lets loose a snort, smirking as he raises his glass to his lips. Dad grunts, neither confirming nor denying my mother’s delusions. It’s not the first time she’s made a comment that sounds as though she believes I’m in charge of something at Fairway Foods, even though I’ve corrected her multiple times. Maybe she thinks I’m being humble and that there’s no way one of her sons could simply be just a regular old staff member.
Clearing my throat as my ears burn, I glance at Randy, hoping he’ll muster a sliver of brotherly affection to turn the conversation. Unlike me, he’s always vying for our father’s attention, so I throw him some bait.
“I dropped off Preston’s promotion paperwork to him today. How’s he liking his new position so far?”
“What do you think?” he retorts, cutting into his steak. His condescension hasn’t surprised me in years, not since I determined it’s directly related to his need to appear heartless in front of Dad. He shifts in his chair and glances anxiously at Dad not three seconds later. “I still need to bring Preston up to speed on a few things, but he should hit the ground running in no time,” he assures him.
“Eh, he’s got that woman who can help him out. She’s been there long enough; she ought to know what to do. That’s what secretaries are for.” Dad waves his hand dismissively, making me pity Trisha even more now. I’m pretty sure that an administrative assistant is a few steps up from secretary, nor does it require doing your boss’ job for them.
“Walter and Molly are meeting us at the country club this weekend,” Dad boasts. “I told him we’d get Preston bumped up. That cheap bastard, Walter, better buy us dinner.”
A favor for a friend. That explains how Preston snagged his promotion. He hasn’t been at Fairway much longer than I have. Dad and Mom have been rubbing elbows with his parents since he and Randy went to college. I should probably be embarrassed by what the workers at Fairway Foods must think of me being deposited in the bowels of the HR department, but I have no desire to work elbow to elbow with Dad, Randy, or their buddies.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, giving me a charge of adrenaline. I covertly pull it out and set it next to my plate. I texted Brice my news before I left my apartment and have been eager for his thoughts.
My ecstatic declaration still looms at the top of the message thread like a badge of honor.
He checked me out today!
BRICE: Who did? Mr. Cuticles?
I wish he’d stop referring to Pete as that, but considering I’m already pushing the envelope by chatting about this near my family, it’s best that I don’t name any names in case someone sees my screen.
ME:Yes!
My repeated use of exclamations is probably pathetic or childish, but I can’t help myself. My encounter today with Pete has had my mind churning with questions. Questions that I can’t answer. Brice will know what to do.
BRICE: Checked you out how? Are you sure?
ME: Checked me out in the restroom!
BRICE: Um…whoa! Details.
Biting the inside of my lip to hold back a giggle, I glance up to make sure the coast is clear. It feels like I’m a kid with their first crush, which is silly. Pete Carver isn’t a crush. He’s just… suitable, and hopefully eligible.
And handsome. And checked out my cock. I gloat silently as I type my response.
ME: We were at the urinals, and I caught him looking. LOOKING-looking!
BRICE: Hm. Are you sure it wasn’t a case of misinterpreted side-eye?
ME: No way. It was full-on looking. For like the longest minute of my life. I swear. Like an entire minute.
BRICE: Rude.
Snorting, I pretend to cough and reach for my water glass. As usual, though, I could be choking on my food, and no one would stop to notice.
