Page 41 of Tickled Pink

I nudge his arm. “What’s up?” I ask as I raise my glass to my lips.

He clears his throat. “Got an email from my mother this morning,” he says.

“Really?”

“Pretty standard, mostly,” he says. “Merry Christmas. Hope you’re well. Say hi to Phoebe, et cetera.”

I pique with interest. “And what else?”

“Well, apparently, my dad flew back home to LA last night and said he was taking the rest of the year off to spend with her.”

“That’s awfully sweet of him,” I say. “Though a tad uncharacteristic.”

“Yeah, she thought the same thing.” He nods. “Asked if I said something to him.”

I smile. “Did you?”

Max glances around the room, scanning from me to Thad and back again. “I might have,” he answers.

I give him a kiss on the cheek before resting my head on his shoulder.

“Bon appetit!” Thad announces as he walks to the table with three plates carefully balanced on his arms. He sets one down in front of me and winks before dispersing the other two. “For the lady first, then extra eggs for Max, and extra bacon for me.”

I lean forward with a sweet smile just for him. “Thank you, Thad,” I say.

He sits down across from us and shoves a strip of bacon into his mouth. “So, whatcha talking about over here while I slave away at this beautiful breakfast?”

I chuckle. “Just family.”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “I’m sure the biannual email from my father will come shooting into my inbox any moment now. In fact, I just might even hold my breath.”

I twinge with sympathy for him. “Sorry, Thad.”

“I’m not.” He raises his coffee mug. “Trust me, Pheebs, I’m better off without him. I’ve got all I need at this table right here.”

Max salutes with his mug, too. “Same for me.”

They both nod and take a sip.

I stab my pancake. “Maybe next year I’ll feel the same way about my parents.”

“No, I’ve got a good feeling about yours, Phoebe,” Thad says. “They’ll come around.”

“Agreed,” Max says.

I smile, my cheeks still a bit sore from yesterday. “Thanks. I hope you’re right, but…” I set my fork down, “when the time comes, I’m ready to cut ties if I have to. What we have here means more to me than what they think my life should be.”

“Well, we can see why.”

I spin around in my chair, drawn to the sudden new voice in the dining room doorway. A man stands there in a flannel shirt with thick, wide shoulders and red, balding hair next to a brunette woman with the same height and build as me.

I gasp and push out of my seat. “Dad? Mom?”

They smile, dimpling their wrinkled faces.

“Hey, honey,” Mom says.

My instincts want me to rush toward them and give them both a big hug, but I hold back and cross my arms instead. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

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