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Why in the world did I allow my parents to squash us together on the same side of the table? It was all an elaborate ploy. Mentally, I know they are taking wedding photos.
Pollux swallows. “What…exactly is it?”
“What exactly is what?” Mom inquires.
“Dating in the context you’re implying. If it doesn’t involve carbon isotopes, I am unfamiliar how exactly one participates.”
Now my parents’ look exchange is a little more odd.
I feel responsible for this calamity, so I clear my throat and say, “Dating is when you go out and do things with different people that you’re romantically interested in so you can learn more about their characters and see who might make a good life partner.”
“Oh. That’s not the sort of thing we decide.”
Almost in unison, my parents say, “What?”
I choke on my drink as I remember the man beside me is either a faerie with a soulmate or in a cult that may not allow him to choose who he winds up with. For all I know, the cult kidnapped Andromeda, so Pollux has truly never participated in any hanky-panky or dating. Period.
Pollux’s hand lands on my shoulder while I fight for my life against the liquid attempting to enter my lungs.
“I’m…fine,” I croak around my coughing fit.
Dad takes advantage of my premature death to thread his fingers above his plate and say, “Maybe you and Kasserole could do something sometime.”
“Dad.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.”
“Mom!”
My evil mother stands, a beacon of innocence. “Is it just about time for dessert? I’ll get dessert ready while everyone finishes up.” Her attention lands on Andromeda, who is the last of us with more than a few bites left on their plate. “Meda, honey. Don’t play with your food.”
Her blue gaze snaps up in the middle of layering green beans like spikes down the potato monster’s back. “Huh? Why?”
Mom gets her firm Mom Face on. “Because I said so, honey. Finish up, so you can have some dessert.”
The most heartbreaking confusion I have ever seen slashes across Andromeda’s face, and she looks at Pollux. He shrugs, lifts his hands with two fingers pointed on each, touches the top of his chest, then lower on his abdomen.
Andromeda makes a soft sound and dutifully finishes everything except the glob of cranberry sauce.
I stand, hoping with all my might that my father will behave himself so I can help bring dirty dishes to the kitchen. However, a second after I’m on my feet and getting the first bowl, Pollux rises beside me.
Softly, near my ear, he murmurs, “Are we clearing the table to make room for dessert?”
I whisper back, “That was the scheme.”
“Is it appropriate for me to help?”
I hand him the bowl. “Yes.”
One way or another, we ceremonially alternate from the excessive dinner food spread to the excessive dessert food spread.
There are three pies.
Four types of cookies.
Two sweet breads.
And no room left on the table.
