Page 114 of The Charlie Method

None of us dare to meet his eyes. Helen isn’t hideous, but I wouldn’t exactly call her beautiful. More like…not displeasing.

Helen’s face turns red. “You called me ‘decent’ last Christmas, Albert.”

A strangled sound escapes my lips. Oh, Jesus Christ.

You stupid bastard, Al. Decent? Just lie and tell the lady she looks radiant.

Dad’s about to keel over from the effort of restraining his laughter.

My mum, bless her, tries to step in. “Helen, would you like some more coffee?”

“Don’t change the subject, dear.” Helen’s on a mission now. “Radiant! Who even uses that word? I’ve spent two decades wondering what exactly you meant by it.”

I tremble with silent laughter.

Mum, still trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters, chuckles nervously. “I’m sure Albert didn’t mean anything by it. Right, love?”

She’s looking atme.

Why am I being dragged into this shit show?

“Uh, yeah. Maybe he just meant she looked good in her dress? You know, some people just have that radiant glow.”

Helen shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “I bet you’re one of those boys who tells every girl she’s special just to see how far you can get, aren’t you?”

So much for her crush.

Albert sighs, clearly defeated. “Sweetheart, if I could go back and change it, I would. But it was just a word. It didn’t mean anything.”

His wife sits back, arms crossed, looking triumphant. “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up. But let this be a lesson to you, Albert. Think before you speak.”

We all sit in awkward silence after that, and when my phone lights up and I see Will trying to FaceTime me, I practically jump out of my chair.

“One of my teammates—I gotta take this.” I hold up the phone and point to it like this is the most important call ever received. The White House is on the line. Everyone has died, and I am the designated survivor. I am the new president of the United States. Even though I can’t be because I wasn’t born here. But still.

Making my escape, I take the stairs two at a time and stumble into my old bedroom. “Jesus fuck,” I groan when the call connects. “Thank you.”

Will’s face grins back at me. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea what you just rescued me from, mate.”

“And here I thought the Dunne family was always sunshine and rainbows.”

“Not tonight, we ain’t.” I quickly fill him in on Dad’s new job and how Mum doesn’t want him to take it.

“If it makes you feel better,” Will says, “things aren’t any better over here.”

He turns his phone to show me the scene behind him: a very formal Thanksgiving gathering. The Larsens must eat their dinner later than we do because the long dining room table is still perfectly set. In fact, the entire room is impeccably arranged, like something out of a magazine. Yet it feels colder than a Canadian winter.

Will passes an arched doorway that looks like it has about thirty people beyond it. Loud chatter echoes through the video for a moment. He enters a different room and closes the door, and the noise dies.

“That’s a lot of people,” I remark.

“Dad needs the photo op. We’ve got all the cousins here. And there was a journalist here this morning from some architecture magazine. This is brutal. I can’t wait to get back tomorrow.”

The hockey season doesn’t typically stop for the holidays. It just happened to work out that Thanksgiving Day got us a two-day break. But we have a game tomorrow against UConn.

“Me too,” I admit, rubbing my temples. “My folks never argue. It’s stressful watching them do it. And then we get back to Briar just in time for finals and the playoffs hunt. Christ, mate. I need to get preemptively laid to get ahead of the stress.”

---