Groans ensue.
Mr. Calloway laughs.
So does Dad, which is something I don’t often see. I enjoy seeing it now, despite this ache inside I can’t quite shake. You would think I’d relish mybirthday. But it always comes with a bout of melancholy. It’s a somber holiday, like Good Friday at St. Oswald’s, only Dad and the Calloways try really hard to make it festive. The thing is, my birthday makes me think of Mom. Is she alive out there somewhere? And if she is, is she thinking of me—her peaceful pause? As soon as I was born, did the demons latch back on?
I set my chin in my hand.
When I was little, before she left, she’d wake me up on my birthday with a playful roar and declare the time had come for a wild rumpus. That same night before bed, she’d read me her favorite story.Where the Wild Things Areby Maurice Sendak. Sometimes, her voice would catch a little at the end, when Max returned with his dinner waiting for him, still hot. She’d smooth down my hair, her fingers smelling of nicotine, and she’d whisper, “Dinner will always be waiting for you, too, Selah.”
Back then, I thought it was a promise.
She might leave sometimes.
But she’d always come back.
She’d always take care of me.
Now I know she was never talking about her.
She was always talking about Dad.
He catches my attention, wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Worry lines. Laugh lines. Both, I guess. Because that’s what love does.
Mr. Calloway sneaks a slice of bacon, dodging his wife’s playful swat. He picks up the plate ofegg rolls and tells everyone to move into the dining room. He sets the plate on the sideboard between the pot of chili and a gift bag. They really shouldn’t have. And yet, they always do. Usually a new candle or some fun smelling soaps from Flicker and Foam. Mrs. Calloway comes in with party horns—the kind that roll out when you blow into them. Kate brings the bacon. And with a clatter of dishes and silverware, everyone digs in.
Conversation starts with a bit of housekeeping. Parade float construction begins this weekend, and Mrs. Calloway wants to make sure the trailers are up to code—a task for her husband and son. With it being the bicentennial, there will be more floats than usual this year, so they’ll need to make two stops: the fairgrounds, where floats have always been stored pre-parade, and the back lot behind the high school bus barn.
Once that’s settled, she shifts her attention to our podcast. Mrs. Calloway wants to know all about the twelfth and final installment of season two, which drops tomorrow. When that runs its course, the men dive into last Friday’s football game.
Dad tears off a piece of cinnamon roll. “That fourth-quarter fumble really cost us.”
“Griffin Tate’s got an arm, but he sure did fold under pressure.”
Kate dips her egg roll into a puddle of sweet and sour sauce. “I don’t think he was foldingunder pressure so much as nursing a broken heart.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Calloway asks.
“Lainey broke up with him last week.”
Mrs. Calloway’s face visibly falls. “But they’ve been together for so long.”
“I know. It was a total blindside. He planned this elaborate proposal to the masquerade ball and carried it out at cheerleading practice. But she rejected him in front of everyone. Then she made a huge scene by breaking up with him right before the game.”
Mr. Calloway releases a low whistle.
Mrs. Calloway frowns. “That doesn’t sound like Lainey.”
Kate quirks an eyebrow. “Causing a scene?”
“Well, not that part. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic. But she’s never been cruel. Breaking up with Griffin before such a big game feels a bit cruel, doesn’t it?”
“More than a bit,” Mr. Calloway mumbles.
“Apparently, she’s seeing a college boy.”
I drop my spoon. “Who?”
Kate wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “That’s the question. She’s being super vague about him. She just keeps bragging to me and Harrison about how he goes to Yale.”
