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My mom sighs, picking up her wineglass. “It’s a boner, Timothy.” She turns to my dad and rolls her eyes. “Put it away, William.”
“Yeah, no boners at my table, Dad.” I drop into my seat and grin at Mina. She won’t meet my eyes.
“I’m reading a literary criticism. It’s in regard to language, not rods.” He shuts off his e-reader, sets it on the table, and sniffs. “I’m saving my historical erotica for later.”
“Did you bring earplugs?” I ask Mina. Her eyes go adorably wide. “Never mind, I have extra.”
“One time,” my dad mutters as Mom downs her wine.
“A lot of therapy,” I point out, refilling her empty glass when she sets it down.
“Maybe we can talk about something else?” My mom gives me a look, telling me I’mthisclose, and this, right here, is what I need. Normalcy. When no one starts in on a new topic, my mom takes charge. “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do now that you’ve retired? You know you need to keep busy. If we have something in place, you can step in as soon as you’re—”
“No.” I push my plate away. Goodbye normalcy, hello trying to keep my shit together.
“You could come work for me,” my dad suggests. I raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “Or not.”
He would murder me in under a week. Mom, funny enough, doesn’t offer me the same deal. I’m banned from the set where she films her cooking show because she doesn’t have a sense of humor.
“I can work as a stunt coordinator,” I say reluctantly. It’s my only hope and I know how the people I love the most are going to take it.
Mina freezes.
Mom puts her fork down a little too hard.
Dad stares.
“Or not,” I add, picking up my fork, pulling my plate closer again, and chasing a cherry tomato around my salad. My appetite hasn’t returned, but I need something to do with my hands.
I wouldn’t have to do the stunts, but…I wouldn’t be able to help myself. They know it. I know it. It would be under the guise of demonstration or just plain showing off. But now it’s out there. Maybe they can ease into the idea of it because I’m not giving up yet.
“How many concussions have you had?” Mom demands.
I pop the cherry tomato into my mouth with my fingers while she glares. “Two little teeny tiny ones,” I say casually.
“Broken bones?” She arches a brow.
“A dozen?” I have no doubt she knows the exact number. I could get there if I listed them all.
“Metal plates, screws, et cetera?” Mom’s eyebrow is practically in her hairline and I open my mouth to warn her against her face getting stuck like that.
“I don’t like cake,” Mina declares out of the blue. “I never have. Even if it’s moist, it still gets stuck in my throat.”
We’re all staring at her now, Mom’s jaw hanging open.
Mina spears her cherry tomato effortlessly. “Buttercream is disgusting too. It’s so sweet and it does nothing to help swallow down the cake itself.”
“Sweetie.” My mom still looks aghast. She got her start in fancy cakes and branched out into every other food imaginable, so this is immensely personal to her. “You haven’t hadthe rightcake.” She whips back to me, stabbing her fork in my direction. “Stitches and sutures. How many?”
“Cheesecake is okay,” Mina continues, unstoppable now. “But only because of the cheese.”
I love this woman for rushing to my defense, but watching her throw cake in my mom’s face isn’t exactly how I want their relationship to start.
“Cheesecake is delicious,” Mom concedes, “And you’re allowed your opinions, honey, but you’re wrong.”
“Technically,” I interject to save Mina from whatever self-destruction she pulls out next, lest it implicates me. “Most of my injuries were from before I started doing stunt work.”
“You need new hobbies,” Mom grumbles. “Bake the poor girl some cake.”
