Page 43 of Kitty Season
“Mom was the only reason I agreed to this, but I swear to God if you don’t stop this right now, I will get out of this car, walk home and leave you to tell her why.”
“Princess.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your princess. I’m just me, Quinn. And whether I stay and pretend to have a super fun time with my friends, including Troye, or go home to have a super fun time alone is dependent on you. The choice is yours. What’s it going to be?”
Officially,the luau doesn’t start till seven, so there’s plenty of time for a late pot roast lunch after all.
Yippee.
It’s been awkward as fuck. Sensing tension, Mom who already teeters on the brink of Martha Stewart-dom, has made the small leap into Stepford Wives mode, going so overboard with the perfectionism, our table resembles a state dinner at the White House.
Our meal began with my childhood favorite chicken noodle soup, pot roast for the main course, and beside us on the credenza sits dessert, Jell-O, another favorite, cheesecake and of course, apple pie. It’s a lot. The one positive? My stomach is bursting at the seams, leaving little to no room for the crippling nerves that besieged me when I pictured Dad and Troye … and Brady and Troye … and me and Brady and Troye, in the same room.
Actually wait … there it is. Better keep eating.
“These potatoes are excellent Mom. I’m picking up on a hint of … Nutmeg?”
“Yes, you’re right, darling. Just a sprinkling of course. April is a bit early for too much Thanksgiving, but well done.” You’d think I just discovered gravity the way Mom beams at me, eyes crinkled in joy as much as I’ve seen since she started using Botox. “Are they teaching you to bake at that little cafe?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not. Even cooking at home, there’s only one recipe I don’t fail miserably. It just happens to contain nutmeg.”
“Well, maybe we could bake them together sometime, and take some down to the boys at practice.”
“No.” Dad’s purple, his clenched fist slams into the table, then he’s pushing out his chair and tossing his napkin to the floor. “No hockey. No boys.”
Matching his stance and tone, Mom rises to her feet. “Sit down, David.”
“I beg your?—”
“Sorry. Did I stutter?” Whoa, Go Mom. “SIT DOWN.” Obediently, he drops like a dog and I can’t help the smile teasing the edges of my mouth. Never have I heard Mom speak to him like that. It’s not like they have a volatile marriage or anything, Dad rarely raises his voice either, but there’s always been a power imbalance between them and with three words, it shifted. “It’s our only daughter’s. Our princess’s twenty-first birthday and I consider myself lucky to have her here for a few measly hours. I understand your need to protect her, I do, but she is no longer a child and if you push her away again I will never forgive you.”
On a shaky breath, she steadies, returns to her seat, reaches to the center of the table, then smiles. “More potato, anyone?”
Firmly put back in his place, Dad remains silent but there’s a slight movement in his head. It’s possibly a nod but almost indiscernible. The newly minted Dom in the room takes it as one though. She also takes the bowl in hand, stands, elegantly covers the several paces between them, then plops a spoonful of mash on his plate.
“Thank you, Sarah.” Briefly, his eyes flicker to me, but they return to his plate before I can read anything they might portray. He clears his throat, and picks up his cutlery, the laden fork only halfway to his mouth when the door bell rings.
“Excellent!” Mom sighs.“That may be the caterer. Do hurry and finish that, darling. I need your muscles with the Musubi.”
“Stare any longer and it’ll ignite.” Noah blinks, then squints, then returns his gaze to the pile of shredded paper littering the table top between us.
“What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you fidget this much off the ice, and with no troll in play. Where’s Poppy?”
At the memory of her precious little face rolling away, my stomach drops. “I … I cracked the shits and tossed her.”
“Whoa. That was …” Noah pauses, looking for the right word.
“Dumb as dog shit?” I offer.
“No. Not that, it’s just very un-hockey player-like. I’ve never known one of us to deliberately lose anything linked to a superstition.”
“It was a case of temper over thought, because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m thick as a brick. Need an example?” I offer before he could even ask. “Me going to a party, knowing I’m also going to see Quinn and Troye, shit myself twice, and die a scared little virgin.”
“Okay, wait, wait.” Noah holds out his hands, slowing my racing thoughts with nothing but his palms. “Dumb as dog shit I get, but thick as a brick means …?”
“It means I’m stupid Noah. That’s what it means.” I slump in my seat then decide that’s not moody enough and collapse onto the desk.
When I fled Quinn’s breakfast this morning, my head spinning, I sought refuge in the only place I thought safe from Troye. The library. I know he’s not flunking, but not once have I seen the guy study since he moved in. Books to enable studying, I’ve seen. Him reading one, I’ve not.
