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“Welcome to the freak show, little sister.”
Chapter Two
Sawyer
“Come on, honey, don’t be like that.” My mom slaps my hand playfully, flashing me a familiar look. It’s a look I’ve borne the brunt of countless times while seated in dimly lit restaurants, staring down the newest man in her life.
Here we go again, I think, this time with husband number three. Until recently, he was boyfriend number... Hell, I lost count a long time ago. I’ve long since adopted the disposition that my mother’s love life is none of my goddamn business, but this time, I can’t help but be a little pissed.
Pissed that she’d marry another guy so soon after the last disaster. Pissed she’d use one of our rare mother-son dinners as an excuse to ambush me with the news. Pissed that the cute blonde in the green dress is now off limits—until the inevitable divorce, at least.
So yeah, I’m pissed. But I’m sure as shit not surprised.
“Wow,” Noelle says. “Um, congratulations?”
“Don’t say it like it’s a question,” Richard says. “It’s a cause for celebration.”
“Right, sorry. I’m just glad you guys told me while there’s still time to buy presents. Miranda, will you and Sawyer be coming to stay with us over Christmas, or will we go visit you?”
My mom smiles regretfully, and I know disappointment can’t be far behind.
“Here it comes,” I mumble into my glass of whiskey.
“Sawyer...” my Mom says under her breath.
“Actually,” Richard says, smoothing his striped tie, “we’ve decided to use the points from my credit card to honeymoon in Bermuda over the holiday.”
“Oh.” Noelle’s smile, which had already been hanging on by a thread, falls away. I’m willing to bet this isn’t the first or even the fiftieth time her dad’s let her down, at Christmas or any other time of year.
I know that feeling. It’s a real bitch.
“Guess I’ll just enjoy having the house to myself this year,” Noelle says.
Richard shifts in his seat. “The realtor thinks it’s better not to have anyone living in the house while we’re showing it to buyers.”
This perks Noelle right up. “You’re selling the house?”
The waiter returns with a second server to help deliver our meals. My asparagus looks a little overcooked, but otherwise, my steak frites are exactly what I asked for.
As soon as the waitstaff is gone, Noelle asks, “Dad, since when are you selling the house?”
“It’s only been on the market a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks?” Her jaw hangs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to talk about until we have an offer.”
Richard attacks his chicken, while my mom pokes at her salmon, clearly desperate for a change in topic. She hates confrontation, unless she’s super drunk. It’s why she’s usually the first to make a break for it as soon as the fuse is lit, most often by her own hand.
Noelle scowls at her curried duck. I’m sorry to say it, but she’s even more adorable now that she’s mad.
“I wish you’d talked to me about it first,” she says.
“It’s not really your decision to make.” Richard sighs. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, just enjoy your meal.”
My mom takes it upon herself to fill the silence with random chatter. Noelle nods along, pretending to listen while it’s clear her head’s spinning in place like a top. My steak is cooked perfectly. The fries are crisp. I have to hand it to Ken; the place has certainly gotten better since I was unceremoniously fired for showing up drunk to a shift.
Personally, I think I do my best cooking with at least two gin and tonics in me. A lot of people underestimate the role improvisation plays in the kitchen.
