Page 6 of The Art of Being Merry
She shrugs nonchalantly. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t come up with something clever to say. She does this often, chasing away any comeback I might have, more so than any other woman in my life. Even when I was little, I wasn’t afraid to speak my mind, to have the last word with Mom, no matter the consequences. Yet, Clementine Powell renders me speechless almost every other day.
What’s up with that?
It’s wearing on my nerves.
“Hosed.” The comment spews from Shania’s mouth, my fifteen-year-old niece. She’s got a lot of her mother’s personality and has always been wise beyond her years. She’s kept all of us on our toes since she was a baby, getting bolder as she gains more life experience. “Wonder what you’d have to do to be kicked out, Uncle Dax?”
It’s a rhetorical question, one I’m glad no other adult answers.
If truth be told, if any of the Nicholas siblings were getting booted from our family, I’d be at the top of the list.
Nope, can’t let my mind drift there. Not even a little.
“Good thing we’ll never have to find out. Mom would miss me too much, right?” I snake behind her, wrapping her in my arms. “You wouldn’t let that happen to your favorite.” I leave off the quantifier of “son” to imply I’m the favorite kid. Which, if my parents had favorites, I’d be at the bottom of the list. Through no fault of my own. The rest of their personalities mesh better than mine.
Can’t help the way I was born.
Mom pats my arm. “Of course, we’d miss you, Dax. Though it would be nice to have my basement back one of these days.” She tilts her head my way. “Any plans on when that might be so we can get it ready for another renter?” There’s a twinkle in her eye, but she’s kind of serious.
It’s not that I planned to live in my parents’ basement for the rest of my life, or even as long as I’ve been there. It’s just,whenever I tell myself it’s time to move out and get my own place, something puts the kibosh on my plan.
Like I’m not the highest bidder on the house I want.
Or I forget to file taxes and owe the IRS so much money.
Or the thought of moving, of being on my own, is too atrocious to consider.
My mom’s waiting for an answer, as is the rest of my family. As chill as I can, I admit, “Soon.”
“Heard that before.”
“Guess he likes living in mommy and daddy’s basement.”
“Soon as in never.”
The last one is Beck. He’s either my best friend, or when he says things to rile me, he’s my worst enemy. It’s been that way since we were kids.
“You’ll leave when you’re ready,” Mom says, placating me with another pat on the arm.
“Unless you plan on being a bachelor your entire life, some woman won’t put up with it. Can’t wait to see who that woman is.” That’s Heidi, second in line of the Nicholas siblings, right before me. I glare her way, but my gaze quickly slides to Clementine.
For a woman like her, I’d make it a point to get out of my parents’ basement.
The thought shocks the hell out of me, almost as if a buried part of me voices it.
On second thought, I can’t say it’s wrong.
Dinner is a drawn-out affair, as most of our family gatherings are. There are appetizers, a main dish, and dessert. Beck especially enjoys hosting all of us to showcase his talents in the kitchen. If he weren’t such a skilled cook, I’d balk at every invite, but the guy makes fried chicken like nobody’s business. He sometimes puts Mom and Heidi to shame.
Bastard.
Once we’ve eaten the meal and the kids are off playing in another part of the house—Shania in charge; Clementine’s boysidolize her—Beck offers after-dinner drinks. Clementine passes, stating she’s had enough and has to drive home.
“If you want to indulge, and why wouldn’t you because the eggnog is delicious, I’ll drive you home. You can leave your car here, and I’ll make sure you get it in the morning.”
“Your truck doesn’t have car seats,” she points out smartly.
