He smirks. “From what?”
“I haven’t decided yet, and that should worry you.”
He doesn’t look sorry as he quirks his head toward the sound of cheering, and we walk farther into the house, the smell of roasting meat becoming stronger, the TV and people chatter growing louder.
“Hey, y’all,” he says as we step into their family room. It’s too big a space for such a cozy description, but that’s kind of how it feels. There are more faces than I can process quickly, all flopped around on the large leather sectional or sprawled on the thick carpet on the floor, every eye fixed on the TV until Josh speaks, and suddenly all those eyeballs are fixed on us.
I recognize his parents right away, but there’s also a couple in their early thirties, a five-year-old girl on the carpet, and a toddler boy sitting on an old man’s lap, trying to feed him pretzels.
Also, I’m so overdressed. Like, there’s a touch of pity in the woman I assume is his sister’s eyes when they meet mine before she smiles.
I’m going to kill Josh. Something slower than boa constriction.
“You missed kickoff, son,” Mr. Brower says.
Josh stiffens slightly. It’s only two minutes into the first quarter, but he doesn’t point that out. “Had a snake bite and all.”
“I want to see, Uncle Joshy!” The girl on the carpet jumps up and hurtles toward us. He manages to let go of me and angle his body in time to scoop her up with his uninjured hand.
His mom is hurrying toward us. “Good to see you again, Samantha. That’s a very pretty dress.”
I don’t know what to do here. Play it off? Draw attention to the fact that I realize I’m overdressed? Act like I’m coming from some other event? By the time I stammer out a belated “thank you,” she’s already fussing over Josh’s hand.
“You had your tetanus seven years ago before we went on safari,” she says. “But I still want you to go see Dr. Nicholls to be sure.”
Safari? I mouth at him. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Pi Phi girls came back from school breaks all the time reporting on St. Tropez or Germany or freaking safari.
“Just the picture-taking kind,” he tells me. “Gramps hunts, that’s it.”
“I only take what I eat,” the old man calls from the sofa.
“I’m not judging,” I say. Maybe I am, a little. I can’t say I understand hunting, but that’s why I try not to judge: haven’t done it, can’t judge it.
“Dinner after the game,” Mr. Brower says. “Come watch.”
I’d feel more in my skin if I were in my stage costume than this prim Sunday School dress. Josh leads me over to the other couple and introduces me to his sister, Reagan, her husband, Trace, and their kids, Stella and Beau. I shake hands awkwardly with the couple, and Stella wiggles her way out of Josh’s arms to reclaim her spot on the carpet, no attention spared for me. Beau doesn’t seem to care either, just leaning against his great-grandpa’s chest as his eyelids droop.
Josh and I take the unclaimed wing of the sectional, and he settles me against his side, brushing his lips against my hair as a pretext to ask, “You okay?”
I nod.
With his head still close to mine, he presses the issue. “You seem very different from last night. You sure?”
I’m not okay. I’m nervous and unsettled. This is way too similar to one of the worst days of my relationship with Bryce, only I hadn’t known in the middle of it that it was about to become one of my worst days. Last night had been fine because I understood an opponent like Presley. I’d known dozens of her in the sorority, and I knew exactly where to poke to make her mad.
But the Browers? I don’t get them. I never have. I don’t understand casual references to safaris when my mom had to save up money for a weekend trip to Six Flags and a stay at Motel 6. That was thenicechoice because it had a pool.
Josh is waiting for an answer, so I settle farther into his side, hoping he’ll take it as me selling the fake dating story. In reality, I want to be less visible at this moment, with my stupid bright yellow flowers chirping, “Look at me.” “I’m fine,” I say like I mean it. Such a liar.
We watch the game for a bit. I do like football, but I’m not a big yeller. Josh, his dad, Gramps, and sister are, getting super invested in each play. Trace and Mrs. Brower exchange amused glances when our team misses a field goal and Reagan goes off on a rant of almost-swears like we lost the whole game. But her husband and mom don’t say anything. The look says, “Gotta love her.”
“Do you like football, Samantha?” Gramps asks during a commercial.
“I do, but I didn’t start following it until college.” My mom and I were more likely to turn on the news or a talk show if we watched TV together. I wonder if I would have grown up as vocal as Reagan is about it if I’d had a dad around.
I have a long list of wonders like that. What ifs. But I’ve learned to live with never knowing.
“We get nuts around here,” Gramps says. “You can yell if you like.”
