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I make ayikeseyface. “Mom, gross.”
“Just wait till you move in with a guy.” She laughs, running her knife through a garlic clove. “It’s all sweet kisses and morning quickies until one of you orders the burrito special.”
I can’t help smiling even as I beg her to stop. This thing with Gavin is still in its infancy. It’s too soon to think about moving in together, yet the thought of waking up beside him every morning, doing each other’s laundry, rubbing each other’s stomachs when we’re sick... It brings me comfort. Even as part of me still bristles at the need for secrecy.
After piling the warm quiches onto a platter, I slip my apron off and bring the platter into the living room. Barring any gatherings I wasn’t invited to, I’m pretty sure my parents haven’t had this many people at the house since my dad’s retirement party.
Clusters of white and gold balloons float like clouds above the bar and buffet tables. Erica and Lorenzo want the baby’s sex to be a surprise, and Erica hates anything pink and frilly, so Mom chose a gender-neutral honeybee theme. All of the plates and napkins feature simple honeybee decals, and Mom even managed to get her hands on drinking glasses sporting tiny embossed bees.
I switch out the old platter of quiches for the new, my attention drawn across the living room by my dad’s exaggerated laughter. He seems sad today, contrary to what his strained smile might be conveying to those who don’t know him like I do.
Erica’s husband Lorenzo taps me on the shoulder.
“These are really good,” he says, holding up a half-eaten quiche.
I smile. “Thanks, I’ll tell my mom you said so. How’re you liking the party?”
“It’s good.” He scans the room, probably looking for Erica. “You and Rachael did an amazing job pulling this shower together. I know Erica appreciates it, too.”
Could’ve fooled me...
I thank Lorenzo again and head over to check out the beverage situation at the bar, adding ice to the bucket from the small built-in freezer and replacing the empty juice bottles with full ones. I’m in the process of adding fresh mint to a jug of lemonade when I overhear Professor Jim Grant, Erica’s boss and another former colleague of my father’s, asking my dad how his retirement’s going.
"My wife and I have briefly discussed moving down south once we both reach retirement age,” Professor Grant says. "I can't imagine what I'll do with all that free time."
My dad stretches his wince into a smile. "Rachael's attempted to get me to try painting, but I keep telling her you can't teach an old dog how to hold a paintbrush."
The small group bursts into haughty chuckles. The sadness in my father’s eyes wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes.
“But you must tell us what you’ve been doing with yourself, Frank," Professor Grant says. “I just can’t picture a sharp mind like yours going dull in front of the television.”
The group eyes him expectantly as he swirls the lemonade in his half-empty glass.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “This and that...”
I grab a pitcher of lemonade off the bar and move to my dad’s side.
“Does anyone need a refill?” I ask.
"Yes, thank you,” my dad says, patting my shoulder. “You all remember Alexis, my youngest. She’s a senior at Brookstone.”
My dad introduces me to the folks I haven’t met while I pour everyone’s refills.
“Will you be earning your masters at Brookstone as well?" Professor Grant asks.
“Of course she will.” My dad grins proudly.
Guilt turns my stomach. My dad calls for Erica to join us. She excuses herself from the conversation she’s having with a professor from her department and shuffles over to the group.
Dad drapes his arms around our shoulders.
“Look at my brilliant Brookstonians,” he says. “I’m so proud of you girls.”
My knees tremble under the weight of the collective’s stare as well as my own heavy conscience. I glance around at this beautifully decorated room.
I grew up in this big, historic house with its crown molding, hand-picked antiques, and marble bathrooms. I spent my childhood surrounded by art and books and never wanted for anything. My parents made sure I got a great education, and they pay my rent so I can focus on schoolwork, because I’ve let them believe that school is the most important thing in my life right now.
Knowing that I’m lying to the people who love me makes me want to run upstairs and hide under my childhood bed.
