Page 100 of Mr. Broody

Mom’s eyes narrow. “Why are you being so… weird?”

I glance toward the living room. I’ve always been so bad at keeping secrets from my parents. “I’m not. I just feel like I should tell you.”

“Well, you’re thirty… are you asking for permission?” Reed’s head tilts.

“No. I’m just telling you.”

“But not telling us where?” Mom asks. “What if I need to get a hold of you?”

“I have my phone.” I hold it up.

Mom puts down her measuring spoon and the spice jar in her hands and stares at me until I’m squirming. It’s her usual parenting go-to in order to figure out what we’re hiding. Panic flares inside me because I’m pretty sure she’s always been successful with her tactic.

“Tell us,” she says.

I look around as if I’m confused. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Owen walks in with an empty bowl that used to have chips in it, then stops because he probably notices Mom’s eyes laser-focused on me. He won’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Owen, your sister won’t be home tomorrow night.” It appears she’s just telling him, but really, she’s fishing, thinking we share secrets behind her back.

“Cool. Have fun.” Owen grabs the bag of chips to refill his bowl.

“Save room for dinner,” Reed says.

Mom’s gaze meets mine, questioning if I’m ready to tell her everything. “The other morning, I woke up and there were some puddles by the front door. Do you know anything about that, Owen?” Her eyes never leave mine.

He whips around with his mouth open, glaring at me. I want to say no, no, no, I didn’t tell, but she’s staring at me, and if I say anything, she’ll know the truth. I know she will.

“Jade was kissing Henry outside,” Owen blurts.

Come on. Fourteen-year-olds haven’t figured out their mom’s tricks apparently.

“Really?” Reed asks, seeming surprised.

“The boys snuck out.” I look at Owen. “I didn’t rat you out, she tricked you. So, thanks for that.”

“Damn.” Owen walks over to Mom. “I’m impressed. I didn’t see that one coming at all.”

Mom smiles at her youngest before setting her gaze on me. “So, you were sneaking out too?”

“Is it really sneaking out if I’m thirty?”

“When it’s under our roof, it is.”

I turn to Reed. “Seriously?”

“Don’t go to him, he’s always a softy when it comes to you.” Mom picks up her spice container and measuring spoon again.

“Yeah, I wish I was his stepchild,” Owen says.

We all turn to him, and he shrugs, taking the entire bag of chips to the other room as if he didn’t just blow up my secret to our parents.

“Sometimes I just don’t understand him,” Reed says, lowering his reading glasses back on his nose.

“So, am I to assume that you’re going away with Henry?” Mom asks, concentrating on her measurements.

“Can we not make a big deal of this?” I ask.

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