Page 5 of King of Lies
“I missed you too, Uncle Fran.”
He pulls me into his arms.
Moving out of Fran and Paul’s house was hard. This is where I did the bulk of my growing up, my childhood home. This is where I was safe from everything, even myself. I didn’t leave home to go to college and I didn’t leave home after, but this year it was time. I couldn’t hide from the world in my uncles’ home for the rest of our lives. And maybe they deserved a life of their own too.
Fran and Paul took me in when my parents died. They raised me as their own. They bandaged my skinned knees and nursed my hurt feelings when other kids didn’t understand me or called me four-eyes. They picked me up from junior high school when I called them crying because I started my period. They took me home and Fran handed me an assortment of pads and sweatpants while Paul ran to the local drugstore and bought me every kind of chocolate bar and bag of chips they had, not to mention heating pads and Midol. What men would do that? My uncles, that’s who.
So, I couldn’t be selfish anymore, couldn’t stay in their safe nest forever. I had to fly so that they could resume their lives once again. They might no longer be the young couple who loved to travel and collect wine, but they could do that again. I was no longer going to stop them.
Now, that doesn’t mean that they didn’t put up a fight when I said I was moving out. Fran cried and Paul demanded that he have the final decision on whether or not my new digs was safe enough. I agreed, not realizing it would be months more before we could agree on where I would live for the foreseeable future.
Another stipulation was weekly family dinners. I happily agreed because no one cooks better than your parents and I really only know how to heat up soup, make spaghetti, grilled cheese, and scrambled eggs. Fran and Paul are basically gourmet cooks in comparison.
“I hope you brought your appetite,” Fran says as he pulls me into the house. “Paul made your favorite roast.”
“The best.”
“I was thinking we should try some more adventurous culinary treats,” he says.
“What? Like sushi? I love sushi.”
“I was thinking we could highlight the continents,” he says casually. Maybe a bit too casually. “Like Europe and then South America.”
Oh my gosh! Is he suggesting that they’re going to start travelling again? I hope so. I don’t want to spook them or make them feel like I don’t want them to leave or that they can’t. How do I play this?
“That sounds fantastic! What were you thinking? Ceviche? That cheesy potato thing you showed me on Pinterest?”
“Yes!” he replies excitedly, “but I was thinking of starting with the U.K.”
“I’m not eating haggis or blood sausage,” I tell him, eyeing him suspiciously.
“You never know,” he laughs. “You might like it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine, fine,” he says.
“Why the U.K.?” I ask. It’s just so odd that I met someone obviously from Europe today and then my uncle is talking about trying some international meals. It’s a strange coincidence.
“No reason, really,” he says. “You know how devoted Paul is to golf.”
“That’s true. Although, are we sure it’s really good for his blood pressure?” I ask. “He always seems so wound up when he gets back. I don’t think he actually finds it relaxing.”
“Ah, that’s just Paul,” Fran says.
“True.”
“Now come tell us all about work,” he says. “Anything interesting?”
We take our usual seats around the dining table and chat while we pass dishes here and there. Paul is a businessman in the city while Fran is an artist. They’ve stayed close by for me, but I hope they’ve been happy. I’d never forgive myself if they weren’t.
“Work is good,” I answer. “We’re hosting a book signing for a pretty big-name author. It’s going to be fun.”
“Are you actually going to talk to anyone,” Fran teases me and I feel my cheeks heat because let’s be honest here, he’s not wrong.
“Of course not,” I answer as I butter a roll.
“Well at least she’s honest.” Paul laughs.
