Page 16 of The Do-Over

Not that he’d been purposely absent, but work came first. My mother had been the one who chauffeured us and attended every parent–teacher conference, music program, art show, band practice, mathlete competition, pageant performance, and informational meeting.

Dad carved. Plates were piled high with food. My leg bounced under the table as I waited out Mom’s silence. It was just a matter of time.

“Did you know,” my mother began, eyeing my plate with raw determination, “there are four hundred calories in a cup of macaroni and cheese and only fourteen in the same amount of cauliflower?”

“Oh, it’s the holidays.” My father grinned at me. “Eat what you want, Cupcake.”

He always called us by our nicknames. I was Cupcake, Phee was Princess.

No comment.

“That’s right, Craig, my boy,” Mimi said. “You tell the old drill sergeant to lay off. She needs to remove the stick shoved up her—”

“Mama!” Mom shot Mimi a glare that would have cowed a lesser woman.

Daddy cut in. “Ladies, let’s enjoy ourselves. Everything looks delicious, and I’m ready to dig in.” He flashed his dimple and reached for the mashed potatoes.

That was Daddy. While Mom was the enforcer, Daddy was the softie, the bleeding heart, the peacemaker which sometimes—okay, most of the time—meant he bowed to my mother’s demands just to placate her. He smiled and nodded and tried to cut off the arguments and disagreements to keep the status quo, and he was very good at it.

I had learned from the best, after all.

“Of course, dear.”

Mimi smiled sweetly but she dumped an extra spoonful of mac and cheese on my plate and piled on a roll for good measure.

My phone buzzed again. While Joel Allen engaged most of the table in his favorite topic, himself, I slid it out and read the text Mathias had sent.

Mathias: I’m going to do it.

Me: Do what?

His reply didn’t come right away, so I tried to look interested in the conversation. Phee pressed into Joel Allen’s arm adoringly and shifted her food around but never took more than two or three bites. I squinted, trying to decipher what she saw in him. Aside from his position at the station, I wondered what the draw was. But Phee had developed a thing for men in positions of power—that professor at university, a lawyer fifteen years her senior, Joel Allen.

The phone buzzed again.

Mathias: I’m going to tell Phee how I feel.

Me: When?

Mathias: Now.

I gasped, and the phone slid from my hands. My mother glared at me in warning. When she looked away, I casually leaned over and picked the phone back up.

Me: What do you mean, now?

Mathias: I’m five minutes away from your parents’ house.

My mother interrupted my next text, which would have said something like, ARE YOU INSANE?

“Are you certain Brent broke up with you?”

My face heated, probably almost the same color as the cranberry sauce, and I slid the phone under my thigh. “Yes, I’m certain.”

“What’s this, Cupcake?” my father asked, a forkful of turkey halfway to his mouth.

“Apparently Brent broke up with our daughter.”

“On the radio,” Joel Allen added. He flinched, and I thought Phee might have pinched him. I would have preferred a fork to the thigh.