But it was her phone.
She pushed her hand down between our bodies to fish it out—ignoring my grumble because I thought she was reaching for something else.
She froze when she saw the screen.
“Who is it?”
She pushed off my lap, tugging her skirt back into place. “I have to take this.”
“Take it then.”
“Where can I go?”
“Go?” It took three more vibrations of her phone for me to work out that she meant she didn’t want to answer the call in front of me.
“The bathrooms, I guess? Or the parking lot?”
She took off, striding toward the cars with her phone pressed to her ear. I couldn’t hear a bloody thing, but I watched her pace as she listened to the speaker, one arm wrapped around herself, her shoulders hunched.
My brain raced to the worst case scenario: It was that fucko Paul; he was calling to take credit for something else she did. Or it was one of the trolls online—they’d gotten her number. Or—the sweat at the back of my hairline rapidly cooled. Or Paul had realized he was a massive cunt and he wanted her back. He wanted her sweet lips on his, her eager body under him.
Instead of breaking things, like I wanted to, I bounced my knee, telling myself sternly to chill the fuck out. I was a rational guy, and I had more than one brain cell, therefore I wasn’t going to go off the deep end just because Paul made me feel like a rage machine. I was cool. This was fine.
The combo of fidgeting and stern self-talk meant that when Lyssa came back, her phone back in her skirt pocket, I was able to ask with convincing casualness, “Is everything okay?”
“Absolutely.” She smiled. It was unconvincing. “That was my mom. She was checking in.”
I frowned. “Does she do that often?”
“No. Should we go inside? I’ve never eaten anything Caroline has baked before, and I don’t want to miss out.”
Despite knowing that Lyssa was lying (none of us were looking forward to subjecting our stomachs to what Caroline had in store), I followed her back inside.
My sister was trying to delicately slide pieces of her pie onto Nan’s stolen china, but each piece was sticking to the cake server she was using, so she had to thwack it on the side of the plate.
Mine she gave the biggest thwack, because she wanted me to know she was still mad at me. In response, I made a point of being cheerful and upbeat—Caroline wasn’t the only showboat in this family, a fact she always forgot. Hannah had that part of the Holliday DNA too, and as we ate, she told a funny story about one of her boudoir shoots that had been sponsored by an adult toy company. She’d had to fly with a bunch of their products and explain to airport security why she was traveling with enough “fun-time accoutrements” (her words) to satisfy an army.
As I listened to my family swap airport stories, all trying to outdo each other, the feeling I’d had earlier of needing to run, to break shit, to swing fists and rail at everyone, finally eased. I had a girl now, and my family loved her. Sure, it was a bummer not to get funding for Mike’s Place, but I’d find a way to make it work. I’d yet to come up against a problem that blunt force and relentless persistence couldn’t overcome. I wasn’t about to let cold, hard reality roll me over and fuck me now, not when I never had before.
After dessert, which was drier than Dean’s jokes, Chase made cups of tea for everyone—apparently that was his job at family dinner now. I waited for him to suck at it, but it turned out even a spoiled little rich boy could successfully dunk a bag in a cup.
I was stirring my tea and thinking about how to rework Mike’s Place funding model, so I didn’t notice the conversation splinter. Dad and Chase were exchanging polite remarks about Woodville’s economy, and Tessa was doing Tessa-things on her phone under the table. Lyssa was speaking rapidly to Dean, Hannah, and Caroline. Two were listening with attentive nods, but Caroline’s lips were pursed, and she was studying my girl with a tilted head. Something was amiss.
“Woodville’s core attraction in the early ’90s was the racetrack, back when horse racing was a thing people went to,” Lyssa was saying, speaking even faster than usual. “There was also a major train line that went through the town—it’s still operational today, but only one scenic train goes through four times a week.” She began listing on her fingers with the kind of dramatic flourish she used in her videos. “It’s northbound on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then southbound on Mondays and Wednesdays.” She crossed her arms like a game-show contestant. “No trains Fridays or weekends, other than freight?—”
“Why are you telling us this, Lyssa?” Caroline interrupted.
“Is it not interesting?” Lyssa froze mid-gesture. “What about the topography? I can talk about that. See, Woodville is right under the southern side of the Ruahine Range, which is home to a lot of rare native species including the whio, a rare blue duck, and the kaka, a large brown parrot. There are also giant snails there. Can you believe it? They’re called—uh. Oh, no.” The color drained from her face as she looked around the table. “No one tell me! I know it.”
“Lyssa.” I reached out and put my hand over hers. It was clammy. “Chill girl, it’s okay.”
Her eyes, always wide but now nearly rolling, turned to me. “I know the name of the giant snail, Mike, I do. I played the audio pronunciation on the conservation website over and over again. I remember it made me think of the Powerpuff Girls. Isn’t it funny how each girl’s personality is color-coded? Like, I know why they made the sassy one green, but why was the sweet one blue and not pink? If you’re drawing on clichés, sweet should be pink.” She suddenly slapped her palms on the table. “What the fuck is that fucking snail called? Fuck!” Her head snapped up to Kev. “Sorry I said f—” With visible effort, she stopped herself.
Dad waved her apology off. “No fucking worries.”
I’d seen Lyssa get locked in on something like this before. It happened when she was putting together an outfit or telling me the difference between wisteria and lilac (I’d heard this speech twice and I still didn’t know). And I knew that her quirk of jumping between topics always got more frantic when she was stressed.
But those were times when she cared about the thing. She didn’t really care about New Zealand’s birds or hills—so I couldn’t work out why she was suddenly extremely concerned about the name of a snail.
