Page 81 of Under My Skin
“Well, if you’d like him to be here, I suggest you call him sooner than later.” It’s the first time I’ve heard a level of coolness in my mother’s tone, and my eyes dart between the two of them.
“Right.” My father nods and gets to his feet. Looking at me, headds, “I’ll be right back,” with a weak smile before excusing himself to the downstairs guest room.
My eyes stay locked on the closed door for another beat before I turn to my mother. “You guys are being weird.”
“Yeah, well,” she says without finishing her thought. “So, what will it be? French toast? Scrambled eggs? A bagel?”
“Whatever’s easy.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “Why did dad go into the other room to call Simon?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. Your father has been dealing with some things lately. I think he wants to talk to both of you about it.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “In person?” It has to be something bad if he feels the need to sit both of us down. Is he sick? And if he is, how bad is it? How much time do we have? I hug my arms around my torso, but it doesn’t help me feel any more secure.
Mom shrugs. “It’s what he wants.”
Before I can ask a follow up question, my father walks out from the room he’s been using as his own. “Simon said he’ll be here in five.”
I study my father a little more closely. I think he looks the same as he did the last time I saw him, but it’s been a few months. Has he lost weight? Is his hair thinning? Does he look frailer than I remember? I’m pretty sure the answer to all three areno,but maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I’ve been preoccupied lately. Everything with the divorce, Everett, and my charred apartment has me in overload. It’s possible I’m just overlooking something.
Shit. The divorce.
Is my mom leaving him when there’s something wrong with his health? I look back at my mother, seeming perfectly content as she whisks eggs in a bowl. I don’t think she’d leave him when he needs her most. None of this makes any sense.
I sit in silence, trying and failing to piece together what’s going on. By the time my mother sets a plate of French toast in front ofme, I barely have time to register that it has strawberry eyes and a banana smile before Simon walks through the door.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Simon calls from the entryway. He walks into the kitchen, and as soon as his eyes fall on me, his face hardens. I’m not sure why he’s surprised. If I didn’t sleep at his apartment, where else would I have slept other than here? He looks from me to my parents, the edge of his features softening into uncertainty. “Uh, you guys wanted me to come here?”
“Here,” my mother says as she sets a plate down in front of the empty seat next to me. “Have some French toast.”
Simon slowly sinks into the barstool on my left. “Thanks?”
I stare at my brother because we’re supposed to be allies in this situation. We’re both about to get news dropped on us, and whatever it is, we’re supposed to be able to rely on each other to get through it. He won’t acknowledge me, though. Instead of looking my way, he just digs into his breakfast. “I have to get back to work, so what’s this about?”
My dad comes to stand by my mother in the kitchen, and Pudge does figure eights at his feet. Letting out a sigh, he bends down to pick up my cat. “I know. I’m sorry to ask you to come over like this, but Lucy has to get home.”
Simon finally gives me a sideways glance but doesn’t say anything about my early departure.
My phone lights up on the counter in front of me.
Allison:
Are you not answering because you’re on a plane?
Right. I forgot to text her back, too. My answering record hasn’t been great lately.
“As you both know, we’ve decided to get a divorce.”
Abandoning my phone, I lock my eyes onto my parents.
“You guys don’t owe us an explanation,” Simon says between shoveling bites of French toast into his mouth.
I give him an incredulous look. Of course they owe us an explanation.
“No, no. We do. I can see how this might seem like it’s coming out of left field. Plus, you kids are bound to find out eventually, and I’d rather be the one to tell you.”
I look between him and my mother. “Tell us what?”
My mom tilts her head. “That we got married under some . . . unconventional circumstances.”
