“Come on. You already know so many embarrassing things about me,” I plead, trying to pull her hands from her face.
“I can't. Don’t ask. I’ll say it by accident." She stands up, hands still over her face, and runs toward the large staircase. I don’t know how she doesn’t hit a wall.
“Well, you found the weak link fast. She’s your best bet if you’re trying to get information.” Joe pulls me up from the couch and announces to the room, “But they all know better. This one goes to the grave.” He leans into me as he leads me out of the family room, his warm hand still wrapped fully around mine. I don't know where he's taking me, but I'm not complaining. In a dim hallway somewhere between the family room and the rest of the house he stops me.
“You’re so—” his puppy dog eyes search my face and his voice lowers, “You are so beautiful today. I love having you here.”
His words are simple: I’m beautiful. He loves having me here. But the intensity of his tone and the look on his face say a lot more. It’s been so long since someone close to me saw this side of me—the messy, freckled, cookie-eating side—and didn’t offer suggestions on how to improve. If my mother saw me today, she would look right past my smile and sunkissed nose and comment on my casualclothing. What I wear always receives a comment, good or bad. My make-up choices are another common topic of conversation. It starts with my mother and continues in the comments on social media. Everyone has an opinion about what I’m wearing, what’s on my face, or what I’ve done to my hair. It’s part of the job, and I get paid well for it.
The thing is, I know I don’t look beautiful today. I haven’t done my daily skincare routine in a week, I finger-combed my unruly waves into a high ponytail, and I’m wearing stretchy clothes. I suspect that I smell like the inside of an old tortilla chip van. This afternoon I was nervous to see Joe again without primping and polishing and layers of perfume, per my usual. But that would’ve meant primping and polishing in the Pratt’s bathroom. I pictured myself hogging their bathroom to do my long makeup routine and thought,Why?I made the risky decision to come to Sunday dinner au naturel. Then Joe said that I’m beautiful and he’s glad I’m here, before commenting on anything else. Either he's a keeper, or he's blind and lost his sense of smell.
“I’m sure I don’t look beautiful, but thank you for saying that. I’m happy to be here.” And I am. There’s a lightness in this family that is like Christmas morning—all happiness and fun and no worries about tomorrow. Plus, there is a lot of food.
A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. So serious. “I’m glad to hear that. But let’s circle back to your first comment. I have a correction.” He leans in. His hand tugs mine and suddenly I’m inches from his face. I can smell his mountain scent and heat is pouring off of him. “Youarebeautiful. You don’t just look beautiful. And when we have more time and I have you alone, I’ll tell you why.”
My heart is pounding. The man is killing me. I want nothing more than to drag him into a closet and attack him, but there are footsteps on the hardwood floor coming across the house in our direction. I shift closer knowing our time is short. It’s torture. I put mylips up to his ear and whisper in my best attempt at a seductive voice, “Then you’ll tell me your middle name?”
His shoulders drop and he hooks an arm around my neck, pulling me in. “You gotta let that go, Fox,” he says with a groan, just as his mother rounds the corner.
“There you are! I came to find my pro potato peeler. I need you,” she says to Joe.
“Aw, Mom. Let her get to know us better before you put her to work.”
“Hilarious, son. Come on, I’m making extra today.”
When we get to the kitchen we find that Sarah is indeed making extra. There’s a mountain of potatoes on the counter, with one peeler, and none of the sisters to be found. Joe gets to work slicing the skins off of the potatoes. I stand there watching, trying to figure out what to do with my hands and scuffing my big toe on the hardwood floor.
“You can have a seat at the counter, Indie. Just relax. No one can out-peel Joe. Just watch. I’ve never seen anyone peel potatoes so fast, ever.”
I watch him peel two or three potatoes, and although I can’t recall watching anyone peel potatoes in my entire life—carbs are pure evil in my parents' house, remember—I don’t see anything spectacular about Joe’s technique. It appears to be standard potato peeling. Maybe I’m missing something?
“See what I mean? He’s fast. I’ve never seen someone peel potatoes like that.” Sarah squeezes his shoulder and he smiles, his eyes never straying from the serious business of peeling potatoes at regular speed. “Thank you, my boy.”
Joe nods and peels slightly faster. I’m definitely missing something.
Willow wandersinto the kitchen, her loose sundress floating behind her. “Smells good, Mama. What can I do to help? Want me to peel some potatoes?”
“I’ve got this.” Joe says, still single-mindedly peeling. Eyes on the potatoes. His competitive tone says,You couldn’t keep up.
“You’re right. You’ll have those knocked out before I even wash my hands,” she says. And that’s when I catch a look between Willow and her mother. It’s a flash of an expression but it says everything: These women know exactly what they’re doing, and they will never have to peel another potato in their lives.
“Wow, Joe.” I pretend to inspect his work. He’s halfway through the pile and it’s the same average-speed peeling, with maximum-level confidence in his skills. “Your mom is right. You’re fast.”
“It’s all in the technique.” He peels a few strips of potato skin in his unremarkable way and smiles. “I always peel the potatoes. Otherwise, we’d have dinner at midnight,” he says with an arrogant grin at Willow.
“Hey, I’m not that slow! Here, I’ll show you. Give it.” She lunges for the peeler. Oh, she is good.
He turns his shoulders to guard his precious peeler from his sister, but keeps working in that ordinary way of his. “No way. I want to eat dinner sometime this month.”
Willow sighs. “Fine, you do it. I’m going to watch Mr. Darcy propose to Elizabeth.” She skips back to the family room with a wink to her mom.
Hours later, when it's late and our bellies are full of pot roast and professionally peeled mashed potatoes, we play a game of cards where I learn that, while she may be quiet, Willow has the aggressive competitiveness of an NFL player. Joe is the lone male at a table fullof women who have conned him into peeling the potatoes, stolen bites of his chocolate cake when his back was turned, and cleaned him out at cards. Their ribbing and teasing has been constant, but he handles it with grace.
"You are all washing the dishes." He throws his hand onto the discard pile and stands up.
"Oh come on, Joe!" Goldie laughs. "Loser does the dishes! That's the rule!"
"More like cheaters do the dishes. We're out of here." He holds a hand out to me, the only person who came close to losing as badly as he did. I think the sisters went easy on me. “I’m taking Indie for a walk.”
