Page 87 of The Proposal Pact
Julie, being the empath she is, feels that something is off and tries to pull Sophie’s attention away from the situation obvious to everyone. Even Dad, who normally doesn’t notice anything, catches on and shoots confused looks at his own wife.
A minute passes, two, ten, twenty and my jaw grows tighter and tighter with each passing second.
But when the time rolls down to dessert and Mom brings out everything but Sophie’s baklava, I lose it.
“Where is the baklava, Mother?” My voice is coated in so much ice, a visible shiver runs down everyone’s spine.
“What, honey?” she asks me, batting her lashes at me.
“The baklava. The one Sophie made. Where is it?”
“Oh, right. I forgot about it, but that’s okay, there are enough sweets here.”
“Okay, that’s it,” I snap. “What the fuck is going on here?” I roar, pushing up from my seat.
Mom and Izzy gasp. “Language, Callum! What are you going on about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t understand, Mother! What has gotten into you? Who are you even?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t been treating Sophie like shit the whole evening.”
“Callum! Language! Again!”
“I don’t care about the language right now! Answer the damn question!”
“You want to know what’s wrong?” She gets up from her own chair, the legs scraping against the floor. “What’s wrong is you married the wrong person. This”—she waves in Sophie’s direction—“this girl somehow bewitched you and ruined your whole life. We looked through every path and in not one was she supposed to show up. So, of course, I can’t just sit here and be okay with it all.”
“Mom,” Julie gasps.
“Lily!” Dad gapes at her.
“Fucking hippy nonsense? That’s what this is about? You’re being rude and a horrible human being because the paths you looked up don’t align with how I chose to live my life? Are you fucking kidding me right now, Mother?”
“Clover!Iremise, den einai tipota!Calm down, please.” Sophie tugs on my wrist, trying to get me to sit down but I only get angrier because Sophie doesn’t speak Greek unless she’s nervous or uncomfortable or something other than perfectly content. That much I know about my wife, and it’s my own mother who put her in distress.
“I will not calm down! But I will leave. Come on, little menace.” I grab the hand that was pulling on me, tugging her up instead.
“Clover,” Sophie hisses trying to make me stop but I’m not budging. I won’t take another second of this bullshit.
With the corner of my eye, I catch my mom drop back down to her seat, her mouth agape as she watches us.
“We’re done here.” I tell her. “Oh, and we’re taking that baklava with us.” Leading Sophie into the kitchen, I grab the dessert that my wife spent half a day working on only to have it lay here so easily discarded, and head back out.
“Damn it, I really wanted some baklava,” I hear Griffin mutter, which is quickly followed by anoomphsound. No doubt my sister just kicked him under the table.
“You’re welcome to come to our house for dessert, Griff,” I tell him and then look at my mother. “Shame on you, Mom.”
I hear her calling after us, but I don’t wait to see what else she has to say, slamming the door behind us and after making sure Sophie is safe inside the passenger seat, I get in and drive off.
The drive home passes in complete silence and it’s not until we are parked that I’ve calmed down enough to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, my words soft and quiet as I rub my eyes with my fingers.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Shrek.”
I snort. “Yeah, right.”
