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When all I could think of was a pair of lips that liked to give me a headache.
“It went well. I’ve been busy with school,” I lied.
Martin and James cast me not-so-subtle looks that screamed “bullshit”. While they didn’t look like brothers at all—one lanky and dark, the other stocky, pale and blonde—they wore identical, covertly venomous expressions, a particular mix of envy and hatred I knew too well.
Why, I couldn’t say. My uncle and new aunt were comfortable, but they’d missed out on being heirs—and all the joy that came with that.
When my dad’s words started to come out slurred, whiskey and pine mingling in the air, I cracked, took a sip of Prosecco for courage, and texted her.
When my uncle’s newest—and third, but who’s counting?—wife, a platinum blonde with more cleavage than brains, began whining about “work,” my hand blanched on the wine glass, while the other surreptitiously typed another message. Then another.
I cut myself off at four, teetering somewhere between praying she’d answer—or that she’d ignore me completely, so I wouldn’t have to face the fact I’d gone crazy and got her number, while painful reminders of exactly why I should give her the widest berth talked and laughed around me.
A jolt of relief sliced through me when my phone finally buzzed.
I might actually make it through tonight.
When the conversation turned cutting, I took that as a cue and excused myself early. My uncle’s beady, glassy eyes and slurred, “Where you goin’, boy?” trailed me, until the door shut behind me and I couldn’t hear them anymore.
Tomorrow… if only I could get through tomorrow.
I repeated it like a mantra in my head as I lingered outside, cigarette burning down to the quick and singeing my fingers as I read and reread our conversation like an idiot, swallowing hard when my thumb hovered over the call button.
Phone shoved in my pocket, I dragged in a deep breath of winter that hurt my lungs and allowed myself a big, pathetic sigh.
The next day was even worse.
My mother, in an overzealous festive mood, had decided we’d prepare everything ourselves and sent the cook home. “Like a real family,” she’d said, with the air of someone having invented Christmas.
I wanted to vomit. A scathing reply burned my tongue—something about how real family doesn’t turn volatile whenever the wind blows wrong—but I kept my mouth shut.
In between prepping the side dishes and marinating the meat, my mind kept drifting to Mia. The impulse to text her again was an itch under my ribs, even knowing she was probably busy with her own preparations. I imagined her bustling around, humming to herself, as she worked alongside people who resembled her.
I wondered what her family was like.
I hope it’s nothing like this.
After my mom had her third martini of the day, something inside me snapped. My hand reached for my phone with a certainty that frightened me. I didn’t bother telling myself this was only about keeping busy. That ship had crashed and burned, though I couldn’t pinpoint when.
Martin, my younger cousin—the little shit—noticed and made a big deal of it, taunting and sneering something about a “girlfriend” loud enough my mom would hear.
An entirely familiar jolt of anger flashed through me from the balls of my feet to my sternum as I fought not to rise to the bait, not to give him ammunition—or worse, confirmation.
“No, I’m texting a friend,” I said, tone clipped. “Watch it,” I warned, as he was about to fuck up the mayonnaise.
J: You there? SOS. Family driving me nuts
Come on, Mia, answer. Please.
Expression carefully neutral, I chopped veggie after veggie, keeping an eye on the mixer, while my insides tripped over themselves with anticipation, until finally, my phone buzzed and the vice around my ribs loosened.
I set the knife down, stepped outside for privacy, ignoring the moron’s wolf-whistles, and lit a cigarette, the frozen lawn crunching under my feet.
M: Oh no, perfect little Josh has issues?
An honest to god laugh choked out of me. My shoulders relaxed a touch as I leaned against the wall and allowed a smile to tug at my mouth as I typed back, thumbs a blur, cigarette dangling forgotten between my lips.
J: Even I can’t be too perfect. That would be boring.
