“Well,look at what the old pussy cat dragged in. I just mentioned to your dad that we’d probably see you today.” Mom smiled up at me, standing on her tiptoes, enveloping me in a hug before I even made it through the threshold. She cupped my face in her hands. “Interesting read, that Bookaholic post, huh?”
I breathed, shifting my gaze downward, quick to avoid Mom’s astute one. I figured she’d eyed the post, a super fangirl of Macy since…always.
Trailing her, I kicked the door shut behind us, then beelined straight for the kitchen. The yumminess in the bag of Pancake Shack grub I held—pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs—taunted my nostrils, screaming to be devoured.
Lola and Jack, two Pomeranian mega-brats, barreled at me, yapping, nipping at my ankles as I lugged along. Without fail, each time I walked through the door, those two attacked me, tails wagging as though they hadn’t seen me since the Earth’s last orbit around the Sun.
“Now, now. Calm down, you crazy kids. Let your brother settle in,” Mom cooed, peeling my furry-sibling appendages off me.
The home in Beverly Hills—all six thousand square feet of it—had always been my go-to spot, popping in for unannounced visits twice, sometimes three times a week. I was lucky to have a rock-solid relationship with my parents even when I made choices they didn’t agree with.
Inside the spacious kitchen, Dad stood loading the dishwasher with what appeared to be their own breakfast cups and plates. “Son,” he said with a nod. “You ready for Saturday’s big game? Those Ducks are looking pretty fierce now that they’ve got Sherlock as a QB. Rumor has it they’re in town early, using SC’s field for practice.”
My father, the distinguished older version of me, held a gleam in his eyes, bright enough to illuminate Alaska’s darkest nights. Mr. Football Obsessed had the gridiron seared into his brain. Discussions about football brought him a sense of pride and mirth—though who could blame his obsession? An ex-pro player, Dad would no doubt live and breathe the game forever, times infinity.
“Yep, we’ve reviewed past game footage, studied their formations,” I told him, plopping onto one of the bar stools lined up at the center island. “They’re good, but not good enough to cause concern.”
It’s not that I meant to sound cocky. With our talent, truth was the Bruin’s reign had been on an unstoppable winning streak. Besides that, we knew we had to win the homecoming game against the Ducks. Their newly acquired quarterback, Sherlock Benson, was a prick who used to lead our rivals at SC. The fuckass played like a dick, and always tossed out filthy trash talk about how he banged my girl right before the game.
Mom offered me a cup of coffee, then hauled her petite self onto the stool to the right of mine, feet dangling inches above the ground.
“So,” she singsonged, flipping through pages of People magazine. “Anything on your mind?”
There was no need to tear my gaze from the container of chow to see she had her perceptive glare nailed to me. As a psychologist, Mom couldn’t ignore her predisposition to survey, analyze, and diagnose.
“I’ve always got something on my mind.” I took a bite of crispy bacon, fighting off the intrepid smirk playing on my mouth.
“Where’s your other half?” Dad’s tenor butted in as he nudged the dishwasher door closed.
“Oh, I haven’t seen Harper since—”
“I meant Macy, Son. You never show up here without her.”
Was it fuck-me day?
Becauseevery minute of it had been chock-full of Macy truths stabbing me in my gut like daggers.Yes, we’d often made our visits back home together, first to her parents’ house next door, then mine, and vice versa. But, shit, not always.
Taking a sip of coffee, I rolled my eyes. “We’re not joined at the hip, Dad.”
I watched Herculean Mr. Stone mosey on over to the center island, stride omnipotent and effortless. As he eased onto the stool to my left, it didn’t go unnoticed how he, and that football-beefy stature, towered over me even while seated.
I gulped.
Pretty sure being sandwiched between a pair of all-knowing parents was worse than undergoing a Law & Order-style interrogation.
“We can skip the bullshit chatter and discuss those confessions Macy spilled all over the internet this morning.”
Shock slithered to the base of my throat, its viscosity thicker than mud coasting downhill in a storm. Mom didn’t even bother tiptoeing around the big-ass elephant consuming the room, consuming my life.
Internally, I scoffed.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a venture into neutral territory?
The mental pop quiz stumped me, multiple-choice answers coming at me in spades.
A: Yep.
B: Nope.
