Page 82 of The Wild Card
She glances up, looking like she’s about to speak when a loud banging on the door makes us both jump.
“Is everyone decent in there?” a loud and most unwelcome voice calls.
I drop my head to the back of the couch and groan. “Go away, Patty!”
Instead of going away, I hear keys in the lock, and a moment later, Pat, Lindy, James, and Winnie pour into the loft. Pat is peeking through his fingers, as though he expected to find us half-dressed and making out on the sofa. I grab the pillow from Molly and toss it at his head.
“We thought we’d see if you lovebirds wanted to come out for a couples’ dinner,” Winnie says with a grin.
“Mmm, guacamole,” Lindy says, almost immediately plopping down right next to Molly. Somehow, Lindy manages to give Molly a one-armed hug while also shoveling chips and guacamole into her mouth. “Oh, my word, this is delicious.Where did you get it? Pat! We need a steady supply of this. Babygirl likes it.”
“You’ve barely started eating it,” Pat protests. “How do you even know if she—never mind.” He holds up both hands in surrender to the loaded-pistol gaze Lindy’s shooting his way. “I will get you the guacamole. Molly, where is this from?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Collin got it.”
“Spill, brother. Who’s your guac supplier?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I made it.” A sudden silence descends on the room. Well, almost silence, broken only by Lindy’s continuous crunching.
“Youmadeguacamole?” Pat asks.
James frowns. “Youmade guacamole?”
“Since when do you bake?” Winnie asks, and I appreciate her genuine curiosity rather than the disbelief coming off my brothers in waves. “Or cook? Wait—what category does guacamole fall under since you’re not technically heating anything up?”
A hearty discussion bordering on argument ensues involving my two brothers and their wives and what, precisely, defines baking, cooking, and making recipes that require only mixing and no heat.
Since I could care less about definitions, I ignore them, and my eyes find Molly’s.
“You made guacamole … for me?” she asks.
I nod, and the smile she gives me sends a wave of something hot and electric through my limbs. It settles in my stomach, a steady burn and churn of happy nerves.
“If it doesn’t get baked or cooked,” Pat is now yelling, “it can’t technically count as bakingorcooking!”
I get to my feet, then hold out a hand to Molly. She takes it with a smile, and I tug her up toward me.
I raise my voice above Winnie and Pat, who seem about ready to come to blows with James over culinary terminology. “Who’s ready for dinner?”
Though I really resented my family’s interruption and especially their timing, dinner is actually a lot of fun. One of my brothers found out we had reservations at a little Italian place and called ahead to expand our party to six people. Because the Grahams are that level of intrusive.
The food is amazing, and there’s less bickering, or at least, noseriousbickering. It wouldn’t be a Graham family dinner without Pat and James getting into it about something, goaded on by Lindy and Winnie—who I think find it good sport watching their men argue.
My brothers apparently forgot the argument about baking and cooking and instead got into it over Pat’s latest obsession, which is a group on Facebook called Things That Have Faces. Of course, we all pulled out phones and checked out the group while they bickered. The group has pictures of houses where the way the windows and doors line up make the building look like a person. Some are a little more subtle, like a tortilla that some people swear looks like Elvis or curtains you have to stare at for a moment before you can see a ghostly sort of visage. There are all kinds of arguments in the comments about those posts where people have to actually search to find the face.
As to what my brothers are arguing about, it’s Pat’s contributions to the group. Apparently, he’s been posting random pictures with a caption likeOh man—I almost didn’t see itorThis looked normal until I saw the face. But none ofthem have faces. Pat’s just being Pat, and James says that it’s rude and abusing the trust of the group.
They can argue all they want if it means I get to sit next to Molly with my arm around her shoulders, toying with her hair. Pretending, for the time being, that we’re just another legitimate couple at this table. It’s not so hard to pretend when this is what I want. It comes so easily that at points I completely forget about the fake aspect.
As the waiter clears our plates, Molly scoots her chair slightly closer and leans into me.
Maybe she’s forgetting too.
Pat doesn’t miss the move and waggles his eyebrows at me. With the hand not around Molly, I lift my fist, sticking my thumb between my middle and ring fingers. He laughs, choking on the water he was drinking.
I’d almost forgotten about this—the Graham fam equivalent to a middle finger. We used to do this to each other all the time as kids until Tank noticed and made us stop, telling us that if the intent was rude, it doesn’t matter what specific gesture you’re making.
He was right. Didn’t stop us from doing it behind his back. The urge to make the gesture now comes from some long-forgotten place of muscle memory, creaky with disuse but almost automatic. The present time seems like a good time to revive it. Pat must agree, because he gives it back to me, still giggling.
