Page 74 of The Surprise
Not a single text.
“Did we have. . .plans?”
Dad’s standing behind her, arms crossed, glowering.
“Apparently we need to have plans in advance to see our own daughter,” Dad says. He sighs and turns around, disappearing back into the house.
Mom’s practically glaring as I walk into the house, abandoning Ethan and Izzy and Whitney and Maren’s gifts in the back of my car. I hope the lotion won’t freeze. . .
That’s when I notice the table. My favorite burger from Brownings. Mom’s favorite salad. Dad’s steak. All of them are sitting on the table, and they broke out Mom’s fancy china. There are tall ivory candles in silver candlesticks in the middle of the table.
“Did you guys—?” I turn around, but no one’s in the room. I’m standing all alone. I raise my voice. “Did you guys plan a dinner for me?”
Dad comes back out, and I notice he’s wearing pajamas. “We did.”
“It’s not even eight,” I say. “We can still eat.”
“I’m sure you already ate.” Mom’s still wearing jeans and a fancy silk blouse, and somehow that makes me feel worse.
“I could eat again,” I say.
“Where were you?” Mom asks.
I don’t want to tell them. Dad acts like the fact that Amanda Saddler bought the Birch Creek Ranch and gave it to its rightful owners is some kind of injustice in the world that personally offends him. Never mind that he’s the one who instigated all their problems, he’s holding a grudge againstthem. If he found out I was at their place. . .it would be bad.
“I had no idea you guys wanted to have dinner. I’m really sorry.”
“That’s the point,” Dad says. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“You did that,” I say. “I’m very surprised.”
“Clearly.” Mom’s voice is still flat. “Well, if you don’t mind that the food is cold, let’s sit, then.”
She didn’t press me for where I was, thank goodness. We sit down, and I bow my head, expecting them to pray like Abigail’s family does.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks.
“Had a crick in my neck,” I lie. “Oh, good. I love their fries.” I can barely choke them down cold, though. Ugh.
“This steak is disgusting,” Dad says.
“There’s this thing,” I say, “called a microwave.” I stand up and hold out my hand. “Here, let me show you its magic.”
Dad and Mom stare at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye. The Brooks would have loved that joke.
“I’m kidding. I mean, about the magic part. But I really will reheat your food.”
“It’s fine.” Dad grits his teeth and plows his way through his cold, tough steak.
My family loves being martyrs. It’s practically a hobby for them. Well, it’s not for me—I microwave my burger. If I’m going to add another half inch of cellulite to my backside by eating two unhealthy meals in one night, I’m at least going to enjoy doing it.
Although,enjoymight be a stretch. I’m shocked my parents made an effort, but I’m kind of wishing they hadn’t. They’re so mad that I didn’t come home, although they didn’t ask me to, that no one really says anything. And I know it’s not great to compare, but I can’t help noticing the contrast between the Brooks’ laughter-filled evening, replete with good-natured ribbing, and my family’s passive aggressive irritation.
I mean, I came home late on my birthday, but it’s not like I had any reason to believe I shouldn’t. I’m just eating my last bite when Dad holds up his glass of wine. “To eighteen. Just one more year of teenage sulking and rudeness, and we’re finally in the clear.”
“Wait, I can’t sulk and be rude after I turn twenty?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head. “Nope, so that means you have less than two years to go.”
