AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You guys have tea, and I’ll go change,” I say.
I repeat: what trouble could they get into in the few minutes that I’ll be gone?
Just in case, I sprint all the way to the bedroom, brush my teeth for half of the usual time, and skip flossing. And yet, when I return to the kitchen, I see that still took too long.
I gape at the scene in front of me, which at first, looks like Dad is servicing Art orally—not unlike the way I did in a certain video we never talk about.
But no. That’s not it, though what’s really happening isn’t thatmuch better, or more appropriate.
Dad is massaging Art’s left foot.
Yes. That’s what happened in the eyeblink that I was away. My father has decided to give my husband a foot massage. He’s doing it with such vigor his ponytail gets wrapped around Art’s ankle.
This would be weird even if Dad hadn’t just alluded to his foot fetish.
I grasp for words, and all I come up with is, “Dad. What the hell?”
Dad looks up at me, his face the definition of innocence. “Art has just told us about his ballet practice and how tough it is on his feet, so—”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Did he ask you to get on your knees in the middle of our kitchen?”
“I really don’t mind,” Art chimes in.
Mom chuckles. “I remember myself as a newlywed. I was jealous if someone so much as sneezed at Harry.”
Yep, Dad’s name is Harry Hyman, which never fails to bring to mind virginal woolly mammoths.
My cheeks burn. “I’m not jealous. I’m emb—”
“My apologies.” Dad releases Art’s foot, pulls out a sock from his pocket, puts it back on Art’s foot, replaces his house slipper, and sits on the nearest chair. “Ever since Crystal and I started to learn about polyamory, I’ve been doing my best to forget jealousy even exists.”
Skunk on a cracker. My sisters and I would sometimes joke about Mom and Dad starting a sex commune one day. That joke was clearly a jinx because it might be becoming reality.
“Way, way TMI,” I hiss at Mom before turning to Art in desperation. “How about you tell us what this breakfast stuff is?” I gesture at the huge spread on the table.
Art takes a lid off a saucer, revealing small black balls inside. “Caviar.” He points at the blins next and explains what they are, finishing with, “Blins with caviar is a classic.”
No wonder he wanted to be sure my parents aren’t squeamish eaters. Chicken eggs seem perfectly normal for breakfast, but fish eggs—gross.
As if reading my mind, Art moves three little saucers my way, removing lids and explaining, “Lychee jelly, mango jam, and date syrup.”
Mom looks super impressed. “You made all this?”
He nods as I say, “Yeah, he even laid the fish eggs.”
Oh, crap. This is too close to the topic of—
“Did you know Crystal is a chick sexer?” Dad asks.
This is on me. I mentioned eggs.
Art puts blins on each person’s plate. “What’s a chick sexer?”
I glower at my husband. “Did you forget what I just said about TMI?”
Ignoring me, Dad says, “A chick sexer can tell apart female baby chickens from cockerels.”
Art ladles caviar for everyone except me. “That’s fascinating. Thanks for expanding my vocabulary. What is it that you do… Dad?”
