Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 37
Dad chokes on a sip of wine and Margot’s eyes shoot up to the ceiling while she struggles to keep from laughing.
Our dining room is bright and expansive, with thick cream wallpaper and a large chandelier hanging over a hand-carved cherry table. The décor is way too nice for the kinds of conversations that go down in here when my grandmother is around.
I smile adoringly at my grandmother. “You’re a poet, Grams.”
“Mom,” Dad says in warning, and then looks at me. “Don’t encourage her.”
“What?” Her milky blue eyes widen innocently at him across the table. “Have you looked at them, Bill? It’s been forever since I changed your diaper or wiped your butt, so I’m not suggesting it looks like your—”
“Can you pass the bread?” Margot interrupts.
Grams picks up the bread bowl with a shaky hand and passes it to my sister. “Honestly.” She shakes her head. “Penises are the strangest-looking organ. If being a lesbian had been an option in my day, I would have definitely gone that direction.” She waves a hand. “Not that I didn’t love cleaning up after my feral children and cooking for your father for fifty years.”
“Oh boy,” Margot mumbles.
“Female bodies are so much more pleasant,” Grams muses. “With the breasts and legs and whatnot.”
I laugh into my water glass.
“You should laugh,” Grams says, pointing a delicate, withered finger at me. “You love your penis more than anything in the world.”
I raise my brows as if to say, Well, you’re not wrong, but Mom lets out a tiny squeak. “Anne,” she says quietly, “Luke doesn’t . . .”
The sentence hangs there and the silence bounces around between us.
“Doesn’t what?” Grams asks into the abyss. “Love his penis? Don’t be thick. Margot tells me Luke hasn’t had a girlfriend in years, but look at that smile.” She points at me again. “No boy his age smiles like that without a lot of willing ladies around, if you catch my meaning.”
“She has a point,” I say.
“Luke Graham Sutter,” Mom whisper-hisses. “Honestly.”
“There may be a change happening,” Margot says, and then slides a stalk of asparagus between her teeth, biting down savagely. I wince. Chewing, she says, “Remember that text I sent you the other day? Luke has a crush on a girl.”
Time stops. Forks go silent. Jaws drop open and dust settles.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, stabbing a bite of chicken.
“Watch your mouth, son,” Dad says under his breath.
I glare at my sister. “You’re on a tear lately, Margot. Are you trying to push me out of this state?”
“Well, what do I have to lose?” she asks. “You’re running out of willing sexual partners in Southern California. Unless you just cycle through them again and forget their na—”
I cut her off with a low “Margot.”
“Luker?” Mom asks me, ignoring this. “You have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Margot answers for me. “There’s a girl who refuses him, but he loooooves her.”
“Are you twelve?” I ask.
My sister winks at me.
“Bubbles?” Mom addresses me again and the delicate hope in her voice makes something between my ribs grow tight.
“You guys,” I say, putting down my fork. “Can we all agree it isn’t healthy that you’re all so invested in me settling down? I’m twenty-three. I graduated last summer.”
“You were just so happy with Mia,” Dad explains.
“Of course he was happy!” Grams crows. “He was seventeen and having premarital sex!” She cackles and slaps the table loudly.
“Mom,” Dad says more forcefully this time. “This isn’t helping.”
“Can we just stop talking about my love life for once?” I ask.
“We,” Margot says, gesturing around the table, “have literally never talked about your love life.” When I don’t argue, she continues: “At least not with you in the room. I just thought everyone might want to know that you’ve got your eye on someone. And, given that you’ve lost your sea legs, so to speak, maybe you could use some advice. After all, Mom and Dad have been married for twenty-seven years. And Grams was married to Papa for fifty.”
“Fifty-two,” Grams corrects her.
“See?” Margot says, smiling at me victoriously. “Fifty-two. I’m sure they would love to give you some pointers.”
Mom’s hopeful smile is back in place. “You want some advice, Bubbles?”
I smile at my sister through clenched teeth and nod. “Sure, Mom.”
Dad pats his napkin against his mouth and sets it down beside his plate before leaning back in his chair and studying me. Oh boy.
“Be straightforward,” he says, lacing his hands behind his head.
“Straightforward,” Mom agrees with a decisive nod.
“My best advice,” Dad says, “is don’t beat around the bush.”
Margot snorts. “I agree. Luke tends to beat around the bush way too much.”
Dad opens his mouth and then closes it, sliding Margot a disapproving look. “If you like her,” he continues with emphasis, slowly looking back to me, “then ask her out.”
“But this isn’t the one who he asked out and she lied about working, is it?” Mom asks Margot.
“It isn’t really that simple,” I say before Margot can answer for me, and for a heartbeat I can’t believe I’m actually engaging in this. But as both of my parents lean in, encouraged, I realize it’s too late. “We went out a couple of times.” I glare at Margot when she lifts a finger to correct the inaccuracy, and she drops it, looking—for once—like she’s going to lay off. “But I’ve been . . . playing the field a bit,” I say, delicately. “And I don’t think she likes that about me.”
“Well, of course she doesn’t, honey,” Mom tells me sweetly. “Girls want to feel special.”
“Take her to a dance,” Grams suggests with a wide smile.
I break it to her gently: “We don’t really do that anymore, Grams.”
“Well, then take her somewhere she likes,” she says. “Does this gal like the movies?”
Dragging a hand through my hair, I admit, “I have no idea if she likes the movies. She’s a bartender at night and surfs all day.”
Mom’s hand drifts in for a trembling landing on her throat. “She went to college, though?”
“She graduated with my class at UCSD,” I reassure her. Mom visibly relaxes. “I think she’s just figuring out what she wants out of life.”
“Well, there you go,” Dad says with a firm palm to the table. “You’re directed and driven. Maybe you can help her find her way in her career, and she can help you get your head on straight about how to get back in the saddle.”
This time my sister’s snort is so loud I’m worried a sinus broke off.
“I can’t believe you actually said ‘back in the saddle,’ ” I tell him.
He nods, wincing apologetically. “I . . .” He reaches for the wine and pours another glass.
I’m practically vibrating inside, needing to escape the scrutiny. As if spring-loaded, my legs push me to stand and I kiss my mom’s forehead, kiss Grams’s dust-soft cheek, pat Dad’s shoulder, and smack Margot on the back of the head. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. The chicken and penises were delicious. Love you guys.”
Our dining room is bright and expansive, with thick cream wallpaper and a large chandelier hanging over a hand-carved cherry table. The décor is way too nice for the kinds of conversations that go down in here when my grandmother is around.
I smile adoringly at my grandmother. “You’re a poet, Grams.”
“Mom,” Dad says in warning, and then looks at me. “Don’t encourage her.”
“What?” Her milky blue eyes widen innocently at him across the table. “Have you looked at them, Bill? It’s been forever since I changed your diaper or wiped your butt, so I’m not suggesting it looks like your—”
“Can you pass the bread?” Margot interrupts.
Grams picks up the bread bowl with a shaky hand and passes it to my sister. “Honestly.” She shakes her head. “Penises are the strangest-looking organ. If being a lesbian had been an option in my day, I would have definitely gone that direction.” She waves a hand. “Not that I didn’t love cleaning up after my feral children and cooking for your father for fifty years.”
“Oh boy,” Margot mumbles.
“Female bodies are so much more pleasant,” Grams muses. “With the breasts and legs and whatnot.”
I laugh into my water glass.
“You should laugh,” Grams says, pointing a delicate, withered finger at me. “You love your penis more than anything in the world.”
I raise my brows as if to say, Well, you’re not wrong, but Mom lets out a tiny squeak. “Anne,” she says quietly, “Luke doesn’t . . .”
The sentence hangs there and the silence bounces around between us.
“Doesn’t what?” Grams asks into the abyss. “Love his penis? Don’t be thick. Margot tells me Luke hasn’t had a girlfriend in years, but look at that smile.” She points at me again. “No boy his age smiles like that without a lot of willing ladies around, if you catch my meaning.”
“She has a point,” I say.
“Luke Graham Sutter,” Mom whisper-hisses. “Honestly.”
“There may be a change happening,” Margot says, and then slides a stalk of asparagus between her teeth, biting down savagely. I wince. Chewing, she says, “Remember that text I sent you the other day? Luke has a crush on a girl.”
Time stops. Forks go silent. Jaws drop open and dust settles.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, stabbing a bite of chicken.
“Watch your mouth, son,” Dad says under his breath.
I glare at my sister. “You’re on a tear lately, Margot. Are you trying to push me out of this state?”
“Well, what do I have to lose?” she asks. “You’re running out of willing sexual partners in Southern California. Unless you just cycle through them again and forget their na—”
I cut her off with a low “Margot.”
“Luker?” Mom asks me, ignoring this. “You have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Margot answers for me. “There’s a girl who refuses him, but he loooooves her.”
“Are you twelve?” I ask.
My sister winks at me.
“Bubbles?” Mom addresses me again and the delicate hope in her voice makes something between my ribs grow tight.
“You guys,” I say, putting down my fork. “Can we all agree it isn’t healthy that you’re all so invested in me settling down? I’m twenty-three. I graduated last summer.”
“You were just so happy with Mia,” Dad explains.
“Of course he was happy!” Grams crows. “He was seventeen and having premarital sex!” She cackles and slaps the table loudly.
“Mom,” Dad says more forcefully this time. “This isn’t helping.”
“Can we just stop talking about my love life for once?” I ask.
“We,” Margot says, gesturing around the table, “have literally never talked about your love life.” When I don’t argue, she continues: “At least not with you in the room. I just thought everyone might want to know that you’ve got your eye on someone. And, given that you’ve lost your sea legs, so to speak, maybe you could use some advice. After all, Mom and Dad have been married for twenty-seven years. And Grams was married to Papa for fifty.”
“Fifty-two,” Grams corrects her.
“See?” Margot says, smiling at me victoriously. “Fifty-two. I’m sure they would love to give you some pointers.”
Mom’s hopeful smile is back in place. “You want some advice, Bubbles?”
I smile at my sister through clenched teeth and nod. “Sure, Mom.”
Dad pats his napkin against his mouth and sets it down beside his plate before leaning back in his chair and studying me. Oh boy.
“Be straightforward,” he says, lacing his hands behind his head.
“Straightforward,” Mom agrees with a decisive nod.
“My best advice,” Dad says, “is don’t beat around the bush.”
Margot snorts. “I agree. Luke tends to beat around the bush way too much.”
Dad opens his mouth and then closes it, sliding Margot a disapproving look. “If you like her,” he continues with emphasis, slowly looking back to me, “then ask her out.”
“But this isn’t the one who he asked out and she lied about working, is it?” Mom asks Margot.
“It isn’t really that simple,” I say before Margot can answer for me, and for a heartbeat I can’t believe I’m actually engaging in this. But as both of my parents lean in, encouraged, I realize it’s too late. “We went out a couple of times.” I glare at Margot when she lifts a finger to correct the inaccuracy, and she drops it, looking—for once—like she’s going to lay off. “But I’ve been . . . playing the field a bit,” I say, delicately. “And I don’t think she likes that about me.”
“Well, of course she doesn’t, honey,” Mom tells me sweetly. “Girls want to feel special.”
“Take her to a dance,” Grams suggests with a wide smile.
I break it to her gently: “We don’t really do that anymore, Grams.”
“Well, then take her somewhere she likes,” she says. “Does this gal like the movies?”
Dragging a hand through my hair, I admit, “I have no idea if she likes the movies. She’s a bartender at night and surfs all day.”
Mom’s hand drifts in for a trembling landing on her throat. “She went to college, though?”
“She graduated with my class at UCSD,” I reassure her. Mom visibly relaxes. “I think she’s just figuring out what she wants out of life.”
“Well, there you go,” Dad says with a firm palm to the table. “You’re directed and driven. Maybe you can help her find her way in her career, and she can help you get your head on straight about how to get back in the saddle.”
This time my sister’s snort is so loud I’m worried a sinus broke off.
“I can’t believe you actually said ‘back in the saddle,’ ” I tell him.
He nods, wincing apologetically. “I . . .” He reaches for the wine and pours another glass.
I’m practically vibrating inside, needing to escape the scrutiny. As if spring-loaded, my legs push me to stand and I kiss my mom’s forehead, kiss Grams’s dust-soft cheek, pat Dad’s shoulder, and smack Margot on the back of the head. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. The chicken and penises were delicious. Love you guys.”
