Page 35 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
That silences the room. The eyes of every adult woman are wide with panic. My mother’s face goes red. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking echoes through the house. The waffle iron steams.
I am in so much trouble.
“So,wafflesmust be working today, huh?” Joe asks Immy, looking thoroughly entertained by our discomfort.
Thankfully, his attempt to distract her and cut the tension works. “Yep. He works every day, that’s why Sunny comes over. She’s my favorite of all of my nannies. She takes me to Rollerburger and we go for walks with Hairy, except Hairy isn’t allowed on our walks anymore because she dragged Sunny down and she got all scratched up.”
It’s like someone put a quarter in Immy. She goes on and on, describing our hike, my fall, and even when we fixed my skunked hair. This kid doesn’t forget a thing. She’s also saving me from catching my family up on the last week of radio silence from me. The other adults in the room encourage her stories, egging her on and getting far more incriminating details than I ever would have shared. Immy is an entertainer, like her dad. She eats up the attention, getting more and more animated as her stories go on.
Around a mouthful of waffle she announces, “And Goldie is my second favorite ‘cause she called my dad Mr. Sparkle Dimple.” She shoves another bite of waffle into her mouth before she’s even swallowed the last one. “She’s so cool.She skates at her job.” Her near-hero worship of Goldie is evident in her tone.
That makes Joe laugh out loud.
My mother makes eye contact across the counter and mouths, “I. Love. Her.”
I mouth back, “Me too.” Probably a little too much. How am I supposed to say goodbye to this girl in a few months?
Today was such a good day, I can’t let it end. After waffles—actual waffles, not the metaphorical kind—we hung out at my mom’s house. Imogen and I wandered through the small peach orchard, which is just starting to bud. We walked Hairy. I had a long, hot shower while my mother and Immy took naps. All of my sisters, plus Joe, Indigo, and Mercer, came over for dinner. We ate my favorite pork barbacoa salad with Brazilian lemonade, and I’m so full I won’t be able to eat for three days. It was loud and chaotic, with a little too much good-natured teasing about my need forwaffles.
After dinner we moved to the back patio table for some fudgy birthday cake and a few rounds of our go-to card game. Now we’re surrounded by plates of half-eaten cake and cards. My sisters are teaching Imogen the rules of the game, and I’m blown away again at what a quick study she is.
The sky is a hazy lavender from some patchy storm clouds and the recent sunset, and the lights strung around the patio are helping us see our cards. A chorus of crickets starts up somewhere in the bushes, and in the distance a car engine is rumbling through the desert.
My mother’s house is remotely located at the base of a line of rocky, red cliffs. She has a million-dollar view of the parched landscape, but with time and attention, her yard and garden have become an oasis. Sitting on her back patio at dusk, listening to the crickets and the sound of my siblings and Mercer bickering and laughing over cards, is all I wanted for my birthday. This is my happy place.
Then Anders walks up the back steps, casually dressed in worn jeans and a white t-shirt that pulls across his broad shoulders and chest. He’s letting his beard grow in for the movie, and he’s looking tan from long days shooting outdoors. My heart thumps in my ears at the sight of him—Anders Beck—in my mom’s backyard.
I take it all back. A handsome movie star for my birthday?Thisis my happy place.
“Looks like I found the party,” he announces.
“Dad!” Immy cheers, jumping up to wrap her arms around his legs. Hairy barks.
My sisters, Willow and Sage, gasp in unison. Goldie drops her cards and they scatter across the table in the breeze. Joe does one of those chin lift salute things that guys do.
My mother chimes in, “Oh good, you made it! Did you have any trouble with my directions?”
“Not at all.” He’s looking right at me. Or am I imagining it?
“What are you doing here? I thought you were working late?” I have to ask, because if I had known he was coming to my birthday dinner I would’ve put some effort in. My hair is slopped into a haphazard bun on top of my head and my nerd glasses are in place. I spent the day goofing around with Immy, so I wore my softest yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt that I know for a fact has a hole in the left armpit.
“All done. We started early today. And your mom invited me.” His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles at me. “Happy birthday.”
I think I’m experiencing a full body blush. I’m warm from head to toe and my heart is tripping. How does that man make a birthday wish sound seductive? Somehow I need to communicate to him to tone down the charisma around my family. They’ll track it, latch onto it, and read way too much into it. And I’ll be teased about this until I’m seventy-five years old. My best shot is to treat Anders like he’s any other friend showing up at a family get-together. Act natural.
“Thanks! I’m delighted that you’re here!” I shout, springing from my chair like one of those inflatable car dealership guys. “Have a seat! We’ll get you some cake!” I shoot crazy eyes to eachof my siblings that I hope communicates, “EVERYBODY STAY CALM AND ACT NATURAL!”
My mom follows me around the table to the back door. Meanwhile, my sisters are smirking and nudging each other, thoroughly amused and enjoying our celebrity visitor.
“Sit here!” Goldie moves down one chair, opening a seat next to the one I just vacated. “Glad you made it, Mr. Sexy Dimple Sparkle Pants.”
“Me too. Nice to see you again, Goldie,” he says as Imogen climbs onto his knee. Hairy curls up at his feet. The three of them look right at home sitting at our patio table. He scans the group. “Wow. Mama and Papa Pratt hit copy-paste when they made you girls, huh?”
Everyone laughs louder than the familiar joke warrants, and I cringe.
I push through the back door and make a beeline to the remainder of my birthday cake. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me. I grab a plate and start to chop a giant slice with a long knife. She places her wrinkled hand over my shaky, knife-wielding one.
“Sunny.”
