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My humor fades, however, at the approach of my parents.
Fidgeting with the collar of her blouse, Mama clears her throat. “Your daddy isn’t feeling well.”
“You’re not coming to dinner?”
“Don’t sound so excited, Sunday.” Mama sighs, fingers tapping against her purse. “We wanna see August again before we leave.”
Taking a leaf out of Cass’ book, I repeat his words from earlier. “If August wants to.”
Exactly how she did earlier, Mama kisses her teeth. “That’s not how you raise a child, Sunday. It’s not whatever he wants.”
“How’d that work out for you, Mama?”
“Willow,” Mama says her eldest daughter’s name in that tired way she always had, accompanied by the typical pinching of the bridge of her nose. “Don’t be childish. You’re thirty years old. Act like it.”
In the blink of an eye, I watch my sister flinch, crumple, and put herself back together again. “I’m thirty-one, actually. And I’ll act my age when you act yours.”
“You watch how you talk to me.”
“Margaret,” my father sighs, sounding as tired as I feel. “Enough. Let’s go.”
She might be a shit mother but she’s got that dutiful tradwife thing down. With a haughty huff, she backs off. When Daddy shoots her a look, she huffs again, bidding us all a hasty goodbye and a dreadful promise to see us soon before flouncing towards their rental car.
Daddy lingers. He hovers awkwardly, mouth agape as he searches for the right words.
Eventually, he decides against them.
For the first time in God knows how many years, maybe for the first time ever, my dad hugs me. So suddenly and quickly I barely have time to react, barely register the words he whispers in my ear—“I came because I wanted to see you. I’m sorry.”—before he’s pulling away, walking away, driving away, and I’m just… gaping after him. Confused.
“Is this a bad time to mention your dad’s kinda hot?”
“Sweetheart.”
“What?” Luna gazes innocently at her reprimanding husband, one blue eye dipping in a wink. “We all know I love a cowboy.”
I laugh but it’s a half-hearted noise, as fleeting as the relief I feel at the sight of my parents’ retreating forms. Because while two people have taken themselves out of the equation, there’s still three left. And all three are talking to my son, clearly making him mighty uncomfortable.
A palm claps the back of my shoulder. “Let’s get this over with.”
I turn to Willow. “You don’t have to come.”
She snorts. “Please. I’ve brainstormed, like, eight ways I can casually cause Carol bodily harm with only a spoon.”
“I’m very skilled at accidentally spilling hot coffee,” Amelia adds. “And Nick used to box.”
“I don’t punch old women.” Nick slaps his wife on the ass before hooking an arm around her neck and yanking her back against him, kissing her temple before nodding at me. “But I could teach you how to.”
Oh, what a tempting offer.
* * *
We choose the closest place to the field for dinner. The food is cheap—not that that matters, considering Cass hands the waiter his card as soon as we sit down—the service is quick, and Mrs. Shay’s face scrunches like we’ve chosen to dine in a urinal, which are all pluses in my book.
I can tell she’s taken off guard by the whole brood deciding to join us. Clare and John, too. They’re quiet, observational, like they’re trying to be on their best behavior with witnesses present but I know that can’t last long. I almost wish they unloaded on me the minute we sat down because spending an entire meal waiting in suspense is painful. And annoying; the knot in my stomach makes eating all but impossible—much to the man beside me’s annoyance.
Toying with the braid tailing down my back, Cass murmurs, “You gotta eat something, sunshine.”
A snort from across the table breaks the miniscule streak of pleasantness John has somehow been able to achieve. “Sunshine,” he mimics, stabbing at his steak. “That’s cute.”
