Page 45 of Make The Cut

“Lauren isn’t as terrible as you think she is, you know.” Even as my mother says the words, I see a glimpse of hurt flash across her features before it’s replaced by calm resignation.

I don’t want to resign myself to the pain my father’s caused me. Causedus.

“It’s not his mistress I’m angry at. It’s him. He’s the one who caused this mess. If he could just keep it in his pants—”

“Enough, Naoya. We’re going to have a lovely Thanksgiving and I don’t want to hear a peep about your father.”

“Fine.” I fold my arms across my chest, feeling like a petulant teenager. I try to soften the scowl on my face. “I’m going to get ready, and then we can go out.”

A shower, a coffee, and one Dunkin’s doughnut later, I feel somewhat human. The sugar and caffeine allow me to remain somewhat present and even amiable, so I ask my mother, “How’s work been?”

As my mother launches into a tirade about the micromanaging boss at her real estate company, I attempt to listen.

But all I can do is wonder how Poppy is. What she’s up to.

Or whether she’s thinking about me at all.

“Naoya! Are you even listening to me?” My mother nudges me, looking for all the world like she’s about to grab me by the ear as she used to do when I was a little kid and would ignore her lectures, or when I let my pet rabbit, Biscoff, out of his cage. One time, he ran into her closet, pooped in her shoes, and chewed up her favourite sweater. That was an incident I still haven’t forgotten.

“I’m listening.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, wishing that traffic would move just a tiny bit faster on our way to Chinatown. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been telling you that I’m bringing a date to your father’s wedding, and you haven’t even responded.”

“You’rewhat? Who? Are you kidding me?” I slam on the brakes, causing the guy behind me to honk as he narrowly avoids slamming into my back bumper. I don’t care.

“Naoya, really, please be serious. Do you think I have any prospects of doing what your father is doing, at my age?” She gestures to herself as if she’s eighty and a shrivelled raisin already.

I frown. “You’re notthatold.”

She sniffs. “Love is behind me. I only wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

Great. I failed her test and I’ve been given a depressing reminder that love is actually behind me, too.

After all, I told Poppy I’m never getting married.

And I’m pretty sure I meant it.

* * *

Monday dawns bright and early, and my temples pound with all the intensity of the worst hangover I ever had. I almost wish I could say alcohol was the reason why my entire body feels like it’s been steamrolled by a monster truck. However, after spending an appropriate amount of time appeasing my mother on Thanksgiving, I spent all weekend hitting the gym, and in particular, hitting a punching bag. Now, my knuckles feel tender every time I touch them, and sparring on the mat only left me with bruises on practically every inch of visible skin. At least my trainer spared my face.

Too tired to take the stairs to my bedroom, I conked out on the couch last night. Wearing gym shorts, I threw on a faux fur blanket that my interior decorator must have purchased for me and fought the urge to sneeze all night.

Now, the sound of my intercom buzzing attacks my skull with a jackhammer. Some alarm clockthatis.

“It’s Poppy! Gustav said I could come in.” She sounds way too chipper for…

I squint at my watch.

Whoa. It’s already eleven?

“You’re welcome if you brought coffee,” I yell back, trying to ignore the way my pulse goes into overdrive from the mere sound of her voice.Calm down, heart. You’re not interested in her, remember?

“Good morning to you, too, Lucky.” She enters a moment later, Gustav holding the door open for her. Dressed in a denim jacket and a sundress, holding a tray of Starbucks drinks, she looks like she belongs in some kind of country music video. Not my house. But I’ll savour every moment of her being there anyway.

“Hi, Red.” I extend a hand for the coffee, sitting up. A gust of AC hits me as I realize I’m exposing my bare torso to her, the throw blanket dropping to my lap while goosebumps rise on my bare arms.

Her eyes widen as she places the tray on the coffee table. “Oh, my God! What happened to you? Were you mugged?”

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