AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Ken and Chelsea. Happy birthday to you!”
A week later, I was sitting in Mr. and Mrs. Easton’s formal dining room as the lady of the house brought out a gorgeous white bakery-commissioned birthday cake. She placed it in the center of the table, careful not to wrinkle the antique lace tablecloth, and smiled at her adult children. I laughed to myself as Ken stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, stubbornly refusing to help his sister blow out their shared birthday candles.
As soon as the pomp and pageantry were over, however, Ken helped his mother cut the cake and pass the plates out to everyone.
Realizing I didn’t have a fork, I walked into the kitchen where Mr. Easton was refilling his glass of sweet tea from a pitcher on the counter.
“What can I do for you, miss?” he asked in that charming Gone with the Wind kind of Southern accent that you just don’t hear anymore.
“I just need a fork. Please.” I smiled.
I liked Ken’s parents. They were as conservative and traditional as my parents were unconventional and eccentric, but they were kind to me despite my purple hair, lack of manners, and the fact that I was obviously sleeping with their son before marriage.
“Comin’ right up.” Mr. Easton opened a drawer and pulled out a polished silver utensil. “You know,” he said, glancing into the dining room and lowering his voice, “when Ken was born on Chelsea’s birthday, I felt so bad for them. I thought, These little people should have their own birthdays. But then Ken decided not to celebrate, and it was like Chelsea did have her own birthday. And it was kinda sad. This is the first time he’s been here on his birthday in…gosh…four or five years.”
“Really?” I whispered with wide eyes as I accepted the utensil. “Why doesn’t he celebrate?”
Mr. Easton shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, but I think it’s just on account of how much he hates being the center of attention. He’s shy, that one. When he was a kid, he used to hide inside his jersey anytime he scored a touchdown just ’cause he couldn’t stand everybody lookin’ at him.”
I stuck the end of my fork in my mouth and leaned forward, hanging on his every word. “But you guys are family.”
“I know. Seems silly, don’t it?” Mr. Easton glanced into the dining room and nodded at someone. “Shoot,” he whispered. “The missus is givin’ me a look. We’d better get in there.” Glancing back at me, he added, “I just wanted to tell you, thanks. I don’t know what you did, but it’s sure nice to have our boy home on his birthday.”
I followed an older, softer, grayer version of Ken into the dining room with a smile on my face. Had I actually done something? Was I fixing him?
We made pleasant small talk over cake and then “retired to the sitting room” for coffee. When I walked into the living room, I was horrified to find not one, not two, but, like, eight perfectly upholstered armchairs. Two plaid ones over here, two leather ones over there, two facing the TV…
Where are the couches?
Why aren’t there any couches?
Everyone took a seat, at least five feet away from one another, and sipped their coffee out of miniature mugs with little matching saucers.
Except for Ken and me, who drank water.
“It’s a shame Bobby couldn’t get off work to join us,” Mrs. Easton said to Chelsea.
“It’s fine. He’s taking me on a surprise trip this weekend for my birthday.” Chelsea blushed while Ken and I exchanged a knowing glance.
Bobby was going to propose at Disney World. Why Disney World, I had no idea. Maybe because it would take visiting “the happiest place on Earth” to make an Easton get excited about anything.
Seeing her wistful smile gave me hope though. If Ken’s parents and sister could get married and have kids, maybe he could, too. They were all the same model of robot after all.
“Brooke…”
Oh shit. She’s talking to me.
I sat up and attended to Mrs. Easton like a student who’d just been called on.
“Ken tells us that you’re going to Georgia State to become a school psychologist. Is that right?”
“Uh-huh.” Shit. “I mean, yes, ma’am. I start graduate school next year.”
“How many years does it take to become a school psychologist?” Mr. Easton asked, looking at me over the top of his little round glasses.
“Seven.” Sir! Say sir! “Seven years, sir. I’ve got four more to go.”
“And then you’ll be the most educated one in the family.” Mr. Easton smiled, completely unaware of his faux pas, but all the women in the room held their breath and looked at Ken.
