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ChapterSix
SPENCER
On Friday morning, I’m back from the gym, shoveling down eggs, when Tess’s text message comes in. It’s followed by a picture. A plate full of lo mein.
MESS: Leftover Chinese food. Breakfast of champions. Don’t be jealous.
A grin hijacks my face.
ME:I’m sorry. Do I know you? Who is this?
MESS:Your boss.
ME:Hi, Mr. Dudley.
MESS: Nailed it.
My mother, sitting next to me, cranes her neck to see my screen. Not subtle, Mom. At least my dad, on the other side of the table, is oblivious behind his paper. I reach out to slide the butter dish over, giving me an excuse to adjust the angle of my phone. After smearing a blob on my toast, I text Tess back. Two can play at the not-subtle game, Mom.
ME: What’s up? Lose your clipboard and walkie-talkie?
MESS:Sounds like me. But no. I need your shirt size. I’m adding to the order for the staff. And you’re staff. As in my employee.
I suddenly flash to Wednesday and Tess mentioningall my abs.
ME:Large, please. And thank you. For the shirt. And the job.
My mother sighs. “Phones in the kitchen are rude.” When she leans over for a piece of toast, I set my phone facedown next to my plate. Somehow I feel like a teenager caught texting at the table, and I’m not a breaker of rules.
“Sorry, Mom.” I duck my head. “I’ve been expecting a call from Milo. He’s planning a reunion for the roommates, and Caden and Troy are going. But I had to leave Milo a message saying I can’t make it now. I know he’s gonna give me a hard time.”
“I see.” My mother nods primly. “So. Was that Milo?”
“Nope.” I pick up my fork. “Any other questions, or can I eat?”
My dad lowers his newspaper. “You live in our home, son. You don’t want your mother to be nosy? Move out.”
“I’m working on it,” I say, shoveling another forkful of eggs into my mouth.
“I’m not nosy.” My mother frowns. “And please stop pushing Spencer to leave.”
“Hey, ho!” The door from the garage into the kitchen flies open, and Frank comes strolling in. Since his shop doesn’t open until ten on Fridays, he always stops by for breakfast. “Any eggs left, or did Spencer scarf them all?”
“A man has to eat, Frank.” I raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t contribute to the grocery bill. Or live here.”
“Yeah.Youshouldn’t either.” He smirks. “Aren’t you sick of cramping Mom and Dad’s style yet?”
“Oh, don’t worry, boys.” My mother tugs her robe tighter around her. “Your father and I have no style. No cramps. No nothing.”
“Speak for yourself.” My dad wags his eyebrows. “I’ve still got plenty of style.” He lifts his newspaper again, while my mother waves his comment away.
“You hush, Tom. Spencer is welcome to live here as long as he wants.”
I run a hand through my hair, still damp from my shower at the gym. “The thing is Idon’twant.”
“So you keep saying,” my dad notes from behind his paper. “And yet. Still here.”
My mom points at the plate of eggs and toast in the center of the table. “There’s plenty of breakfast left for you, Frankie. Just wash your hands first.”
