Page 47 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
Rubbing my arm, I wonder why I surround myself with such strong, violent women. “Sorry to burst your bubble, sis, but Rose and I are just friends.” I side-step in case she tries swinging for me again.
Instead, she laughs in my face. “Sure, sure.Friends.”She shakes her head, looking at me like she did when I was little and in trouble. “Well then, you better step it up, little brother, because between Rose taking pole dance lessons with Mom, playing video games with the boys, and her willingness to buy a butcher’s turkey for me, I’d say the Bodaways are more likely to kick you out of the family and adopt her if you’re too stupid to lock her down.”
I throw her a sardonic look. “First, thanks for that. Second”—I glance up at Rose, who has her head thrown back in laughter, looking youthful and stunning—"it would be a crime to lock her down. She’s only twenty-one.”
“Hey, if she’s okay with you robbing her cradle, so am I.” Brit turns to watch Rose stop laughing long enough to taunt Matt into a beer-chugging contest.
Huh. I thought for sure Brit would give me shit about her age. Thought she’d agree with how illogical it would be to get serious with someone so much younger than me. “Well then,” I say, my tone much more defensive than I mean it, “Not only is she young, but she’s a billionaire who is about to graduate college with a prestigious degree.” Instead of reassuring me, my logical reasons for not being anything more than friends with Rose pinch at my chest.
I’d call it heartburn, but I haven’t eaten anything yet.
Brit simply throws her hands on her hips, looking condescending as hell. “So what you’re telling me is that she’s a great catch and you’re too chicken-shit to step up.” She claps me on the back so hard I stumble. “Good to know.”
“I—”
But she’s gone, walking over to Rose and Matt, leaving me on the sideline with my lame excuses, dead arm, and bruised shoulder blade.
Rolling my shoulder and shaking out my arm, I ease the pain from my sister’s attack.
But it doesn’t do anything for the pain in my chest.
Twelve
Symbiosis
Rose
“There.”Brit sets the platter, holding the perfectly golden turkey, to the left of her mother. “What do you think of that?” For someone who was near tears a little more than an hour ago, Vance’s sister looks pretty smug.
Though it could also be due to the four beers we drank out back while we waited for the turkey to fry.
“Wow, Mom.” Jacob, sitting one seat over to my right, smacks his lips while holding a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. “That looksgood.”
Everyone’s situated around the mahogany dining table. The matching chairs are ornate with upholstered seats and wooden backs. There’s a china cabinet to match, filled with long-ago collected knick-knacks and the extra place settings of good china we aren’t using. As is usual with older houses, the formal dining area is its own room, separated from the rest of the living spaces. And although it has that untouched, slightly museum-like quality of a room used mainly for holidays and big family gatherings, with our casual attire and everyone’s relaxed attitude, it’s like I’m part of a long-standing tradition. It’s homey.
It's awesome.
“You know, Brittany”—Helen, looking very matriarchal in khaki slacks and a sweater set, surveys the bird as Vance carves it—"I was wary of this whole fried turkey fad, but it does look delicious.” It’s hard to believe that this is the same woman I hug a pole with every Sunday morning.
“Yes,” Matt says, catching his wife’s eye. “Just like Pinterest said it would.”
He jumps in his seat across from me at the table, Brittany having no doubt just kicked him in the shin, though his smile never wavers.
“Well, to give credit where credit is due, it wouldn’t have turned out half as well if it weren’t for Rose’s help.” She nods graciously at me.
I smile, my cheeks tight. The whole point of challenging both Brit and Matt to a chugging contest was to beat them into submission so they wouldn’t be able to mention anything about my turkey procurement. The last thing I want is to make this day about anything I did. Or about how much money I spent. It should be about Thanksgiving. About family.
Helen pats my hand, and my face heats. “Yes, such a good girl, my Rosie.”
I can’t remember the last time I blushed.
“But isn’t your family missing you today?” Helen asks me, her concern only making my cheeks hotter.
I finger the napkin on my lap with my free hand, trying to muster up some levity. “Oh no, my brothers are with their womenfolk today.”
“But what about your parents?” Jacob asks. “I tried asking Mom if I could go to Billy’s house today.” He leans in conspiratorially. “He got a new hoverboard rider for his birthday,” he whispers, as if that explains why he should’ve been allowed to miss a family holiday. He straightens. “But she said kids were required to be with their parents on Thanksgiving.” He finishes with a masterful pre-teen roll of his eyes that encompasses both his exasperation at not being allowed to go and his appreciation at being wanted by his mother.
“My parents are dead.”
