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I look from my dad to the basket on Stella’s scooter, wide-eyed. A couple watermelons take up practically the whole space, so the comment isn’t out of nowhere, but I can’t seem to scrub the sensation of feeling really, really dirty after hearing it.
“They are,” Stella replies. “I think they’re going to be pretty juicy. You and your son should come over and have some.”
My brain tries to perform its own exorcism or electric shock or something, but Carly’s voice brings me back from the brink before I get the chance.
“His name is Ryan, Mom.”
“Ryan,” she says, a sassy tone to my name that makes my balls feel like they should freeze and put their hands up before anything else bad happens.
“That’s right. I’m Ryan,” I agree, lifting a hand in a pathetic wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Stella.”
“Oh, you too, honey! I don’t know how my daughter managed to do it before me, but we can rectify the damage tonight.”
My eyebrows lift up half the width of my forehead. “Excuse me? What’s happening tonight?”
“We’re finally going to have time to get to know one another! Oh, Sal, say you and Ryan can come over for meatloaf dinner tonight!” Carly’s mom says excitedly, bouncing on her own scooter.
Sal nods without even pretending to confer with me. “Of course. We’d love to.”
“We’d love to,” I repeat. Though, I don’t think it escapes anyone that my tone is a touch more ironic.
Carly bites her lip, I assume in a bid to keep from laughing, but it stirs all sorts of other thoughts in my mind. Thoughts, it seems, I’m going to be policing constantly tonight at dinner.
“Well, then. We’d better get going,” I say firmly, knowing I sound a little like an asshole but having way too much on my to-do list to care. “I have a lot of work to finish up before we head over tonight. Do you ladies have a preference in wine? Red or white?”
Carly goes to open her mouth, but Stella beats her to the punch, clapping excitedly.
“Oh, hun, red all day, every day!”
I look to Carly. She shrugs, but the missing sparkle in her eyes suggests it’s a gesture of I’ll just drink something else rather than agreement.
“All right, then. We’ll see you at…”
“Seven,” Stella supplies helpfully. “Can’t wait.”
Oh yeah. Should be a grand fucking time.
Carly
I’m in the bathroom when the doorbell rings.
“Carly! They’re here!” my mom shouts from the hallway. I swear, the woman has been amped up since we left the Winn-Dixie, her excitement on a different level.
The entire time we cooked dinner together in the kitchen, music was blaring and Stella was certainly working to get her groove back. Singing, shimmying her sore ass—even though it kept making her grimace, smacking me on my ass to the beat, she did it all. Hell, I barely made it into the bathroom to pee, shower, and get ready without her joining me.
“Okay!” I yell back, leaning forward across the vanity to finish putting mascara on my lashes. “I’ll be there in a sec!”
After helping her do a million tasks revolving around her famous meatloaf dinner, I’ve hardly had any time to get myself cleaned up.
Since I have the culinary prowess of a donkey, I would’ve just ordered a damn pizza, but Stella Page hasn’t been known as the dinner party queen for most of my life for no reason. When she invites guests over for a meal, by God, she’s going to cook them a fucking meal.
Homemade, baked from scratch, self-created recipes—she pulls out all the stops. Today, though, thanks to the fractured tailbone, she had to turn to me for help like one of those episodes of Top Chef where they make the contestants bring in a member of their family for assistance even though they don’t know the difference between a spoon and a ladle. When it comes to the Pages, I am that family member.
I eat frozen dinners or get takeout or, sometimes, when I’m lucky, my friends like Brody and Nina bring me the leftovers of their homemade goodies because they’re painfully aware of how food inept I am.
If it weren’t for Stella’s messed-up assbone, I’d have begged off entirely.
“If your face isn’t fixed by now, it’s not going to be,” she clucks from the other side of the door, and I sigh.
Lord, it’s me, Carly. Please give me the strength to ignore my mother tonight. With the way she’s been so far, I can only imagine how hopped up she’s going to be with them actually here.
Quickly, I rub on some lipstick and haul ass out of the bathroom, scooping up my dirty clothes and toiletries in the crook of my arm and running down the hall to the guest room to drop them on the bed. My shower bag lands with a soft oof and bounces off the bed, but I don’t bother going back to pick it up. Instead, I pull the door closed behind me, promptly hiding the mess, and hustle down the hall to where my mom is waiting in the entryway.
