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Nobody has ever paid less attention to me in my life. I could light myself on fire, and I doubt that my parents would stop staring at Smith long enough to put out the flames.
“Is that Smith in the car?” Nana Rosie points with the hand that isn’t holding her usual dirty martini. “I didn’t realize he worked as a cabdriver now. I thought he made a boatload of money at that little magazine of his.”
“He’s not a cabdriver, Nana.” I loop my arm around her. “It was just a weird coincidence.”
“Well, are you going to explain this weird coincidence to us, Penelope?” my mother huffs. “Or will Smith fill us in when he fetches your bags?”
“He’s not fetching my bags, Mom,” I say.
“Is he the reason you’re late? Your sister said you were stuck in traffic. Was that a lie?” my mom asks. “Were you two canoodling?”
Ew. Really?
“Didn’t Phoebe show you the news? Everyone trying to get on the island was stuck.” I suddenly realize that Phoebe and Falon are nowhere in sight. “Where is Phoebe?”
“She’s inside with Falon and Martin.” My mother’s face falls. “Oh, poor Martin will be so upset. I can’t believe you would do this to him, Penelope, and with Smith Mackenzie of all people. You told me you were taking one of those rideshares. I didn’t realize that was some sort of code for a hookup.”
“Mom, I haven’t been flexible enough to hook up with anyone in a car since I was sixteen,” I say. “I’m a writer, not a yoga instructor.”
“You’re not being funny, Penelope. None of this is funny at all.” My mother turns to my father. “Carter, can you believe this?”
“No, I can’t,” my father says. He hands my mother their shared umbrella. “I’m going to go have a word with that jackass.”
“Dad, stop.” I tug at his arm. “This is all a misunderstanding. If we could just calm down and go inside, I could explain it to everyone.”
The van door slams shut, quieting us all instantly. Smith’s boots crunch on the gravelly road as he makes his way to the back of the van for my bag. Despite there being only a vehicle between us, Aidan’s van might as well be a mountain. We don’t move or say a word. We just wait with bated breath as Smith closes the back end of the van and then rounds the corner with my luggage and Ozzie in tow.
“Carter. Silvia. Nana Rosie.” Smith nods to each of them. “It’s nice to see all of you.”
I stand with my family in pregnant silence, waiting to see who will be the first to address Smith. It’s like being at the OK Corral if Wyatt Earp’s brothers were all over seventy and smelled vaguely of gin and Chanel No. 5. If I’m the first to break the silence, there’s bound to be an argument. My parents practically have their boxing gloves on, and I can’t start the weekend with them pissed at me for no reason. That will diminish my chances of getting their help, which is the only reason I came home in the first place.
“Smith, my darling boy, it’s so good to see you.” Nana Rosie hands me her martini as she glides across the driveway to Smith. He leans down to hug her, and she kisses both his cheeks, branding them with her signature red lipstick. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen you. How have you been?”
“I’ve been well,” Smith says. “Thank you for asking.”
“You certainly look well. Doesn’t he look well, Silvia? Carter?”
Nana Rosie isn’t a spring chicken, but she’s still the sort of woman who likes to poke the bear, and while normally I find this part of her personality to be eccentric and fun, right now I find it terrifying. My dad may be in his seventies, but at six foot four, he’s still a force to be reckoned with when he loses his temper. The same goes for my mother. She might be an old Southern belle in appearance and voice, but there’s a fierce mama bear inside that tropical-print caftan.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up with my daughter,” my dad growls. “Especially after the way you treated her and this family.”
“Dad,” I interject. “Let’s just calm down.”
“Carter, I see that you’re upset, but—”
“Stop calling me Carter. That’s Mr.Banks to you, and don’t you forget it.” He takes a step toward Smith. “Now, get off my driveway, and don’t—”
The van door slides open. A groggy Aidan pokes his head out, inspecting his surroundings like Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day. He wipes a bit of crusted sleep from his eyes before slowly stepping out of the van.
“Wow,” Aidan says. “You guys really do fight in the streets.” He puts a hand on his hip and scratches the back of his head.
“Young man, who the hell are you?” my father asks.
“That’s Aidan,” I say gently. “He’s our driver, or at least he was our driver until he overdosed on doggy drugs.”
“Penelope Banks,” my father snaps. “This is hardly the time for jokes.”
“I’m not joking, Dad. Look, it’s a long story, but the gist is that Smith’s the reason we made it home at all.”
