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“That’s not what he said,” Lauren reprimands while placing a tray of lemon roasted broccoli with pine nuts close to the center.
My best friend’s eyebrows instantly dart down in consternation. “Is it not?”
“How have your listening skills gotten worse over time?” Clark scolds, playfulness dancing through his tone.
“I’m inclined to blame Uhura,” he swiftly sells out the woman at my side.
“And I’m inclined to kick you off my ship.”
“Your mom’s ship.” His taunting gets us both laughing. “You are not the captain here.”
“Like I’ve said before,” Lauren sweetly interjects, the brown sugar glazed plate of salmon joining the other food on the table, “it’s best that I only had one.”
“Because one was just enough.”
“Or more than enough,” pokes J.T. around another laugh.
“You are this close,” Bryn demonstrates on her fingers, “to getting a shitty uncle nickname.”
More snickers reverberate around their rustic cottage home prior to Clark placing a kind hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing with everything?”
The temptation to lie is short courtesy of a stern stare I know better than to disregard. “I’m ambivalent.”
He shifts his body into the head of the table seat to my right. “Why?”
“Part of me is grateful to know that my father didn’t hide my actual sibling from me, yet the other part of me hates that in a way he still did. That he hid so much from us both. That both of our parents – Monica’s mom and my father – weren’t honest.” Bryn’s hand lands on my thigh and mine drops to cradle it. “I think we have a weird Batman and Joker like camaraderie built from not knowing of their relationship when they were alive and not having enough answers to satisfy our curiosities; however, I feel guilty for still wanting more information. For hating that there are unfilled gaps that will probably never be filled.”
“Weston,” my mother-in-law in the making unexpectedly calls out as she settles into her seat opposite her husband, “do you know what a parable is?”
“A made-up story to teach a moral lesson.”
“I told them often to you when you were a boy,” Clark fondly chimes in.
“Bryn was never a fan of listening to me tell a story-”
“Not when Star Trek did it better,” mumbles my fiancée between scoops of side dishes.
“However, I am hoping now that I’m going to be a grandma-”
“Have we settled on grandma?” she asks on a casual point. “Have we considered g-ma? Or Gigi? Or Gam Gam? Or maybe even something way off script like Roz?”
“Homage to Helena Rozhenko?” J.T. asks without missing a beat. “Worf’s mom? The saint of a woman who raised a Klingon child?”
“Exactly!” exclaims Bryn, accidentally flinging tiny pieces everywhere.
“Okay, no,” Lauren denies with an open palm, “we won’t be calling me that.”
It’s impossible to bat away my smirk when the woman at my side dramatically rolls her entire head.
“Like I was saying…” finding my gaze occurs again, “now that I’m going to be a grandma, I hope that I finally get the opportunity to weave such tales.”
Touched by the idea, I softly smile. “I have no doubt that you will.”
“There’s one in particular that I think you might like to hear.”
A small twitch of befuddlement is presented.
“And it’s one I know Clark would love to help me tell.”
