you?
“Good,” I reply. “How are you?”
“Fine. Good to hear that. Bring it by next week, and I’ll have a peek under the hood.” Dad shifts, looking uncomfortable in his slacks and collared shirt. I give him a sympathetic look.
Zach and Kate stand up from the bench where they were seated, and immediately three little kids plop down on it.
“Hi, Maya.” Zach smiles. “You look good. I like your hair.”
“Thanks. You look good, too.” And he does. He’s wearing Dockers (of course) and a white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, showing his white undershirt. He’s letting his sandy blond hair grow beyond his normal nearly shaved look, and it’s slightly gelled to a sticky-up preppy style. Zach looks identical to Mom — blond, green eyes, tall and lean, the whole package.
I look exactly like Dad’s mother, Nana. Short, average weight (meaning I have to run to stay lean), blue eyes, and hair as close to black as brown can get.
It’s kind of a funny sight when my whole family is together. Mom, Dad, Zach, and now Kate are all above five foot seven, and then there’s me.
I like being short though. I even wrote a sticky note why:
Reasons It Is Okay to Be Short:
1. I don’t hurt my back getting into the lower cabinets in the kitchen.
2. I get discounts from people who think I’m younger than I am.
3. I will never hit my head on a fan and cut hair I don’t want cut.
So, it’s all good.
“Maya, your hair looks really cute,” Kate says, giving me an awkward half-wave. Kate’s not big on physical affection. So we wave. Or do the little elbow-squeeze thing.
How very unlike me. The more hugs I get, the happier I am.
“Thanks, it’s really good to see you,” I return.
Dad’s buzzer starts going off for the table. “Davis, party of five,” he tells one of the hostesses.
She looks us over to make sure none of us is going to attack her like the impatient mob in the front will and then nods. “Right this way.”
We’re seated in a booth in the corner of the restaurant, and everyone settles in.
“How’s airline mechanics?” Kate asks Dad.
“Good. How’s doctoring?” Dad asks Zach.
“Big caseload but fine. How’s teaching?” Zach asks Mom.
“Same as before. How’s the coffeehouse?” Mom asks me.
“Busy but good. How’s the lawyer thing going?” I ask Kate.
“Slow time of the year, so it’s going well,” she answers.
And then the table falls into complete silence. Out of sheer boredom, I open my menu, even though I already know what I’m going to get.
Sunday evenings when Zach isn’t home aren’t like this. Usually, I wear my pajama pants over to my parents’ house. Weplay games or talk in front of their huge, gorgeous fireplace. Mom always makes a killer meal, like steaks and mashed potatoes or chicken fried chicken and creamy gravy, and sometimes we roast marshmallows over the fire and make s’mores or pop them in a cup full of hot chocolate. There’s nothing like it. Then Calvin and I drive home all warm and full, content to live another week on instant freezer meals.
I haven’t figured out if it’s Zach or Kate or both who put such a damper on the conversation. But ever since they got married, it’s as if talking is too personal.
Dad gives me a pained look over his bifocals and his menu.
“So, um,” I start, clearing my throat, “the, uh, funniest thing happened the other day. Um, you remember Travis Clayton?”
Ignoring my second rule, I might as well lay myself on the sacrificial altar for the sake of discussion. I gulp half the glass of iced lemon water our skinny, emo-ish server brings.
Mom immediately perks up. “He was adorable!”
“Who’s Travis Clayton?” Kate asks.
“Maya’s high school sweetheart.” Zach looks across the table at me. “Didn’t you two even discuss marriage at one point?”
“Right before we broke up, right before sophomore year.” I nod.
“In
high school?”
Kate is incredulous.
“College.
“Good,” I reply. “How are you?”
“Fine. Good to hear that. Bring it by next week, and I’ll have a peek under the hood.” Dad shifts, looking uncomfortable in his slacks and collared shirt. I give him a sympathetic look.
Zach and Kate stand up from the bench where they were seated, and immediately three little kids plop down on it.
“Hi, Maya.” Zach smiles. “You look good. I like your hair.”
“Thanks. You look good, too.” And he does. He’s wearing Dockers (of course) and a white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, showing his white undershirt. He’s letting his sandy blond hair grow beyond his normal nearly shaved look, and it’s slightly gelled to a sticky-up preppy style. Zach looks identical to Mom — blond, green eyes, tall and lean, the whole package.
I look exactly like Dad’s mother, Nana. Short, average weight (meaning I have to run to stay lean), blue eyes, and hair as close to black as brown can get.
It’s kind of a funny sight when my whole family is together. Mom, Dad, Zach, and now Kate are all above five foot seven, and then there’s me.
I like being short though. I even wrote a sticky note why:
Reasons It Is Okay to Be Short:
1. I don’t hurt my back getting into the lower cabinets in the kitchen.
2. I get discounts from people who think I’m younger than I am.
3. I will never hit my head on a fan and cut hair I don’t want cut.
So, it’s all good.
“Maya, your hair looks really cute,” Kate says, giving me an awkward half-wave. Kate’s not big on physical affection. So we wave. Or do the little elbow-squeeze thing.
How very unlike me. The more hugs I get, the happier I am.
“Thanks, it’s really good to see you,” I return.
Dad’s buzzer starts going off for the table. “Davis, party of five,” he tells one of the hostesses.
She looks us over to make sure none of us is going to attack her like the impatient mob in the front will and then nods. “Right this way.”
We’re seated in a booth in the corner of the restaurant, and everyone settles in.
“How’s airline mechanics?” Kate asks Dad.
“Good. How’s doctoring?” Dad asks Zach.
“Big caseload but fine. How’s teaching?” Zach asks Mom.
“Same as before. How’s the coffeehouse?” Mom asks me.
“Busy but good. How’s the lawyer thing going?” I ask Kate.
“Slow time of the year, so it’s going well,” she answers.
And then the table falls into complete silence. Out of sheer boredom, I open my menu, even though I already know what I’m going to get.
Sunday evenings when Zach isn’t home aren’t like this. Usually, I wear my pajama pants over to my parents’ house. Weplay games or talk in front of their huge, gorgeous fireplace. Mom always makes a killer meal, like steaks and mashed potatoes or chicken fried chicken and creamy gravy, and sometimes we roast marshmallows over the fire and make s’mores or pop them in a cup full of hot chocolate. There’s nothing like it. Then Calvin and I drive home all warm and full, content to live another week on instant freezer meals.
I haven’t figured out if it’s Zach or Kate or both who put such a damper on the conversation. But ever since they got married, it’s as if talking is too personal.
Dad gives me a pained look over his bifocals and his menu.
“So, um,” I start, clearing my throat, “the, uh, funniest thing happened the other day. Um, you remember Travis Clayton?”
Ignoring my second rule, I might as well lay myself on the sacrificial altar for the sake of discussion. I gulp half the glass of iced lemon water our skinny, emo-ish server brings.
Mom immediately perks up. “He was adorable!”
“Who’s Travis Clayton?” Kate asks.
“Maya’s high school sweetheart.” Zach looks across the table at me. “Didn’t you two even discuss marriage at one point?”
“Right before we broke up, right before sophomore year.” I nod.
“In
high school?”
Kate is incredulous.
“College.
Similar Books
