I pretend like I’m ending the call before I flip around to my mother’s crossed arms and pursed lips. I’m getting my story out there before she has the chance to speak.
“Justin was in a car accident! Can you believe it?” Like, seriously, does she believe it? I don’t even give her a chance to answer before I add more details. “He’s okay, thankfully. But pretty shaken up.”
Her brows raise in her same cynical way. “So he’s not coming?”
“He can’t. He has to wait for the police to arrive and figure out whether or not his car is driveable or if he needs to call a tow truck. He’s so bummed to miss.”
My mom studies me for a second, and I worry she’s going to call me out by dramatically shouting, “LIAR!” But instead, she nods and says, “That’s too bad, Summer. I know how much you want him here.”
There’s a softness in her eyes that kills me. Idowant him here, and any animosity or snippiness from her about Justin is because she cares, because she knows more than anyone how much I want this to work out.
She wipes her hands on her apron and heads back into the kitchen, with me trudging after her. All eyes are on us when we enter.
“Justin’s not coming?” I hate that that’s Juliet’s first assumption after the call.
“He got in a car accident.”
Erin’s eyes go wide with concern. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, a woman clipped his back bumper, causing him to hit the car in front of him.” That part is true, which is important for the pictures I’m about to show them, but this next part is a full-blown lie to strengthen my case. “When she hit him, he hit the car in front of him, spun through oncoming traffic, and ended up on the other side of the road, facing the opposite direction. He’s lucky to be alive.” Their faces and expressions show adequate concern and belief, so I keep going. “But from the sounds of things, he’s fine, and there’s minimal damage to his car.”
“A Christmas miracle,” my mom says with a smile so fake she’s practically a flocked Christmas tree.
“Yes.” I meet her gaze. “It would appear so.”
“No, it’s aThanksgivingmiracle,” Miles, one of the twins, says.
“Aturkeymiracle!” Max shouts louder than his brother.
“That’s right.” My dad reaches across the pizza trays and ruffles both of their hair.
“Oh look, he sent me a picture.” I flip to the photo from Monday night’s accident I already had dialed up and show my family. It’s a shot of Justin’s car where his bumper was dented in from hitting the other car’s fender.
Jeff points at my phone. “If he got hit first in the back, how come there’s no dent there?” He’s not asking to prove me wrong. He’s just always thinking critically. It’s annoying—especially right now.
“It was just a bump.”
Jeff frowns. “A bump was enough to cause him to hit another car and spin across all the lanes of traffic?”
“Ice!” I interject. When in doubt, choose slick roads. “His tires spun out on ice.” I don’t even know if that’s possible.
“Let me see.” Erin’s husband, Tommy, leans over my shoulder to take a look. That’s when Brian and Rick join too. Now, all my brothers-in-law are discussing the trajectory and plausibility of my story. I want to take the picture away and hold it close to my chest so no one can look at it anymore, but that might give away my lie, so I stand there, letting them dissect it.
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it!” Finally, a way to get me and this picture out of here.
“What kind of salesman would knock on the door on a holiday?” my mom scoffs.
Anna laughs. “I don’t think the Stanworth family Turkey Stuff is recognized as a national holiday.”
“Not yet, at least,” my dad chimes in.
“Maybe it’s Bob Irvine,” Carma says, keeping her eyes on her cards.
I back away from the men even as Rick gets the last word in.
“No, if the car hit him first, wouldn’t the inertia take him in the other direction?”
Inertia?Are you freaking kidding me, Rick? All I wanted was a good excuse for my boyfriend. I’ve never been so happy to exit a room in my life.
