AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“We need to talk.” Those are the most awful words ever put together. Alone, they are benign. Together, they make up the scariest sentence in the English language.
“Your mother is getting sicker. It's going to get a lot worse here soon. She's not going to be able to do a lot of the things she wants. We're going to have to try and keep her spirits up. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yeah.” Oh, you mean telling her that the guy I'm seeing is an angel vampire that gets to drink my blood whenever he wants was a bad idea? Yeah, too late.
“Good.” He takes a bite of his pizza, but he doesn't look like he wants to eat it. I'm not that big on it, either, but I need something to do with my mouth so I end up eating two pieces. I put the rest of it in the fridge. Dad puts his head in his hands, and it makes me feel bad. I don't mean to treat him the way I do. We just seem to be unable to communicate on anything other than a hostile level.
“How's work?” I never ask him about work. Because it's really boring. He raises his head from his hands, as if he's just woken up.
“Oh, it's, uh, it's good. We just approved new rates and there are a lot of people coming in for loans.”
“That's good. Isn't it?” I know next to nothing about banking. I'd probably know more if I paid attention at all when he brought me and Mom to some of the corporate dinners, but I'd been too busy gorging on the fancy food an trying to see if I could sneak a sip of champagne.
“Yes. It is.” And then we fall into silence again.
“How is everything going at the bookstore?”
“Fine. We made a poetry display today. Tex covered everything in glitter.”
He takes a sip of water, his forehead contracting. It hits me how much I look like him. “What does glitter have to do with poetry?”
“I don't know.” He gets up from the table. Not a bad conversation. More than we've had in weeks. And no one yelled. That's progress.
I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am. That in a few months, it's going to be just the two of us. We won't have Mom to keep things lively. Somehow we need to find a way to communicate, or else we're going to fall apart as a family even before we lose her.
Dad interrupts my gloomy thoughts.
“I got a cheesecake. Strawberry. I was hoping she'd be well enough to have some, but...” he doesn't need to finish.
“I'll get some plates.” Dad makes a cup of instant coffee and we each sit down to cheesecake. It's good, made by a local woman who only uses eggs her chickens lay and organic vanilla and so forth. The berries are also from her garden, tart and sweet at the same time. Like life.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else. That boy you were with when your mother had her episode.” Oh crap. Here we go.
“What about him?” I poke at the cheesecake. I really don't want to eat it now.
“Who is he? Where's he from? How old is he?” Bang, bang, bang. Oh boy, I'm really going to have to do a lot of lying here.
“He's a student at Galdon Academy. He's originally from New York. He's eighteen.” I fire back just as fast. Only the middle thing is true. I hate how easy it is to lie to Dad. Much easier than Mom.
Dad jabs at his own cheesecake. “He looks older.”
“I know. He gets that a lot. Mom says he's an old soul.” The last part is also true.
“How did you meet him?” Oh, how I would love to tell him I met Peter at a bar, or some other scandalous place, but I don't want to test his heart like that.
“We were at a party and I bumped into him and we started talking. We had a lot in common.” Oh, I am pulling this out of my ass. “He really likes books, so we got talking about that and we've been talking ever since.”
“Does that mean you've been involved with him for a while?”
“No, just a couple of weeks.” Weeks that feel like lifetimes.
“He's been here to the house.” It's a statement that expects an answer.
“Yes.”
“Your mother knew.” I can't fib about this. He'll know I'm lying, but he's so forgiving of her, it doesn't really matter. She could murder someone, and he'd say, yes dear, I'll hide the body.
“Yes.” He rubs his chin and puts his fork down.
“I don't know if I like this or not.” I'm going with or not.
“Mom likes him.” I feel the need to point this out. It's pretty much Peter's biggest selling point.
“She does.” I nod so vigorously my hair flops in the cheesecake and I have to wipe it off with my napkin.
“How many times has he been here?”
“A few.” Hundred.
“Has he been in your room?” Every night.
“Just to get a book.” Oh the lies, lies, lies.
“That's all?” He drinks my blood. But no sex. Other than the eye variety. Oh, I also want to drink yours more than I want to eat this cheesecake.
“Dad, it's not like that. Peter respects me. Mom would never let him in the house if those were his intentions.” We both know she would never open the door to a skeezy guy who just wanted to get in my pants. Not to mention the fact that I'd never be attracted to a guy who would do that anyway.
“I'm sure he respects you.” He snorts, shaking his head. He definitely put quotes around the respect word. “Just please do not do anything to upset your mother.” Too late.
“I'm not going to.” That cheesecake is going to burst into flames if I stare at it any longer.
“Well, I had to do my Dad thing. As long as he is respectful of you, and your mother is here to supervise I think it's okay to have him over. But we'll have to set some rules.” Has he lost his damn mind?
“Rules?”
“He leaves before nine-thirty on weeknights, ten on weekends. No unsupervised trips to your room. If you do go to your room, the door must remain open. There will be no making out or horizontal behavior of any kind in this house. Understood?”
“Sure.” The rules he's set out are so laughable given the situation it's nearly impossible to keep a straight face.
“One other thing. I want to have a formal introduction with him so I can ask him some questions myself. Get to know him.” He takes a bite.
“I don't know –” of course he cuts me off.
“I want him to come over for dinner one night this week.” Oh damn, that's going to be a problem.
“He, um, his mom's really strict about having him home for dinner.” I'm flailing like a goldfish on a kitchen counter.
“I think she can make an exception.” He scoops up the last bite of cheesecake.
