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Gemma’s eyes snagged on me, and I sewed my lips together to keep from grinning. “Sonice.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Frank got food poisoning, so we decided to cut the trip short,” Caroline informed me.
“Oh, man. That sucks. How was it besides that?”
Frank grunted while Caroline rubbed his back. “It was wonderful. The resort was so peaceful, and the spa was out of this world. I had the best hot stone massage of my life. Frank even tried acupuncture. Everything was great up until…” She frowned, motioning her thumb to Frank then inspected her daughter. “What’re you wearing?”
Gemma held out her arms as if only realizing now what she’d put on. My red boxer-briefs and white undershirt sagged off her body. “I, uh, must have gotten the laundry mixed up.”
I clapped. “So, anyone want coffee?”
Caroline helped Frank up. “Actually, hon, I’m going to put him to bed, but help yourself.”
They trudged upstairs, leaving Gemma and me alone, and I smiled down at her. “You hungry?”
“How are you so casual about this?” she said, following me into the kitchen.
The past few days, we’d been eating at the island, but I pointed to the table in the sun-room next to the kitchen. “People have gotten food poisoning before. No big deal.”
“I mean…” She clenched her jaw tight, her words muffled through her teeth. “My mother and Frank.”
I kissed her jaw and scrunched up my underwear at her hip. “You’re killing me in this.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
I opened the refrigerator for orange juice and the mixture of berries and gross vegan yogurt she had stored in there then set it all on the table. “You worried about being caught?”
“Like we’re fourteen-year-old kids, yes, it’s a little awkward.”
I grabbed a pan to fry myself some eggs. “What’s so awkward about it?”
“I don’t even—we don’t…” She gestured between us and sank down in a chair. “What are we supposed to say to them when we haven’t even talked about it ourselves?”
I cracked two eggs in the pan. “Then let’s talk about it.”
She picked up a spoon and dished out her yogurt and berries into a bowl. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then we stared at each other for a minute, waiting for the other to start.
“You first,” I said, concentrating on my scrambled eggs as I scraped the pan with a spatula.
“Okay, well.” She dragged that word out into three syllables. “I don’t want to sound like an annoying girlfriend or anything, but…”
I looked up from my food to find her staring daggers at me.
“What was the situation with you and Bridget?”
“She wanted a boyfriend. I wanted to be friends.”
“With benefits,” Gemma corrected. “How long were you—” she bent her fingers up in quotation marks “—friends?”
“A couple of months.” I spooned out my eggs and sat down at the table with her, silence descending between us. I poured myself orange juice and played with the glass, rolling it back and forth between my palms. “Since you asked that question, does it make you my annoying girlfriend?”
“Annoying?” she repeated, pausing with a berry halfway to her mouth.
