Page 16 of Broken By the Bad Boy

“Happy Thanksgiving, Benjamin.”

Still rooted to that spot, Ben fakes a smile and nods. I shift closer to him to grab his hand, but Dad’s stare has me creating some distance between us. If he had his way, I’d be single for life.

“Ben,” I correct. “He prefers Ben.”

Tension thickens the air. Ben’s lips stretch into a close-lipped smile when Mom glances at him to confirm my statement. Some of the awkwardness dissolves at her smile, and she pulls out a chair for him. I take the seat beside Ben, linking our hands under the table. Dad doesn’t stop staring at him. He shoots Ben his infamous glare a few times, and my boyfriend squeezes my hand a little harder each time.

“We prepared this…” Mom says as she opens one of the dishes.

I tune Mom out once she starts talking about the food. It’s from a recipe she found on YouTube.

Different trays adorn the table. It’s a tradition to cook so much food and give more than half away. I doubt Ben will be able to eat anything with how uptight he looks. I place a hand on my boyfriend’s knee and offer him a small smile. He returns it, but it disappears as soon as Dad clears his throat. I am not sure why he invited Ben to the house if he intends to make him uneasy.

“How did you two meet?” Mom asks from her side of the table.

Really? Where else would it be if not school? As if I have so many other places to visit. I pass her a disapproving glance, and she shrugs. They are making this entire dinner awkward, like it’s so surprising I have a boyfriend. Okay, it’s a bit surprising, but they should act grown up about it.

“School,” Ben replies. I relax a bit when he does, and the knots in my joints slowly melt. He sways. Without meaning to, I lean into him. “But we never got talking until I joined drama club.”

Mom’s eyes widen, and her jaw slacks. Her expression is the opposite of mine. Uh-oh. I push my plate around after she dishes the food. I tell her almost everything when I can, but drama club skipped my mind. Besides, she has been busy setting up a new male line for her fashion store. My mouth waters when she opens the bowl of stuffed turkey. I can never get tired of eating that.

“Drama club?” she muses. Mischief colors her voice, but Ben misses it. “Tell me about it.”

The atmosphere shifts after that statement. Ben relaxes in his seat as he dives into the full details of the school play. Sweat breaks out on my palms. I bunch the hem of my dress and bite my lip. He is talking about us with so much fondness, but Dad is looking at him with anything but that.

“So, yeah. I’m her Romeo,” he says this part with a smile. “And she’s my Juliet. She’s very good at it.”

An unusual calm falls over us. Ben takes my hand in silent reassurance, like he senses my worry. He still has that smug smile while I wait for the follow-up questions, hoping Mom doesn’t burst his bubble. She knows her rotten tomato when it comes to movies. I take the first bite of my turkey.

“What’s your favorite scene from the play?” Her voice is calm, like she’s setting him up. Heat crawls up my neck as Ben’s eyes light up with his answer, but he doesn’t notice. Mom pushes Dad’s plate to his front. She serves his meal, then asks, “Is that the part where they kiss?”

I choke on my turkey, and my eyes sting with tears. Ben passes me a glass of water. His hand moves to my lower back, and his thumb caresses my knuckles until my cough subsides. I flash him a smile when he kisses my temple and passes me his napkin to wipe the top of my dress.

Dad clears his throat to remind us we are not alone. Ben grows beetroot red, and Mom hides a smile behind a tablecloth. She is the only one enjoying this. I divide the turkey into tiny bits and chew slowly to avoid any questions they might direct at me. Dad redirects his gaze to my boyfriend, and my breath hitches when Ben’s hand lowers to my knee. My dress rides up, giving him free access to my skin, and he traces random shapes on my thigh. It soothes me to an extent.

“Four in ten girls will get pregnant at least once before they are twenty,” Dad starts. He fixes brown eyes on mine as he picks up a slice of turkey with his fork, and my cheeks burn brighter than Ben’s. I will send all his patients a video of him dancing in his onesie. I will tell his co-workers he likes to sing in the shower. That he dislikes a staff member by the name of Martha but only tolerates her because of her age and experience. Also, on game nights, he wears pink onesies so he can collect free beers. “That’s eight hundred thousand teen pregnancies a year.”

A thick, awkward pause ensues after Dad drops the unsolicited statistics, and anxiety sweeps over me. Mom stops eating. Ben’s hand slips from my knee. Dad doesn’t seem to notice or care at this point because he takes another bite of his meal and nods in approval. Why is he like this?

Sweat breaks out on Ben’s forehead even with the air filtering in through the tall windows. I try to hold his hand under the table, but he tucks it between his legs. Dad holds up his fork as if he remembers something he forgot to add, and I shake my head. Ben will never set foot here again.

“Teen pregnancy is quite high in the US.”

Ben is a statue by my side. Rigid and unmoving. I am more or less the same, a rock princess beside her stone prince. The food in my mouth loses its taste, and I grip the edge of the table.

“Dad,” I muster through gritted teeth.

He feigns innocence, his eyes wide open with confusion. “What?”

The comeback I only had seconds to think of flows out of my lips. “You just made those numbers up. They are not real.”

Ben grunts. His chair squeaks, and all eyes turn to him. He tries to grab a glass but misses it and ends up spilling water on the table. This is not going great at all. Mom is up on her feet at once. Ben stops her from cleaning up his mess to do it himself. We share a glance, and he winks. What?

“Look it up if you like, but I’m the doctor here,” Dad continues like we never had an interruption.

I stab my turkey. I’m sending that video. I will send it to Martha first, then to his assistant.

“A neurologist,” I remind him.

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