Family and Other Accidents by Shari Goldhagen Page B

cousin’s husband.
    â€œNothing’s wrong, I’m just tired,” Mona says, flattening her cake to a paste with a heavy silver spoon. “I filed a late story last night.”
    Connor nods and scrapes fondant frosting from his plate with a fork. Licking the edge, he seems closer to twelve than twenty-two.
    â€œHow’s school going?” Mona leans forward to talk to him better. A few years ago, she used to hate Jack’s brother, seeing him as bizarre competition for Jack’s affections. But she likes him now, and Jack is ignoring him, too.
    â€œSame old, same old,” Connor says, too quickly.
    If he were her responsibility, she’d pry, but he isn’t. For almost three years after their mother died, he was legally Jack’s ward, but tonight Connor is drinking wine, reminding them he’s old enough now, that he belongs to no one.
    â€œHow come the only time anyone ever eats phyllo dough is at a wedding?” he asks.
    â€œBecause phyllo dough isn’t very good.” Jack eases back in his chair, back into her conversation with his brother. It’s as if he finally remembered they were there, remembered the appellate cousin made a comment about Mona’s hair not being natural, remembered Connor has been dodging questions about his post-graduation plans all night.
    â€œNo, phyllo dough actually sucks,” Connor says. “We should order a pizza later.”
    In nearly identical black suits, Jack and Connor are a matched pair. If Mona had to give a police artist details to make sketches of them, she’s not sure the descriptions would be very different—bushy eyebrows, black eyes, cheekbones high and broad. But Jack’s nose is straighter, and Connor is thinner. They have the same dark hair, cut almost the same way—longer in the front—but Connor’s doesn’t part evenly in the middle, and he’s not nearly as comfortable with his long arms and legs.
    â€œPizza’s fine,” Jack says. “Whatever you want, kid.”
    â€œYou in on the pizza action?” Connor asks Mona.
    â€œSure,” she says, distracted by Jack’s ex-girlfriend swaying in the arms of her doctor husband on the dance floor.
    Anna—“AnnaFram,” as Connor calls her, squishing together her first and maiden name as if it were one word—is the rare woman who looks good pregnant, olive skin flawless, shiny dark hair piled on her head in a way that’s somehow casual and elegant. Looking at Anna’s swollen round breasts, Mona yanks up the front of her own dress, wonders what possessed her to think her B-cup boobs could support the black strapless.
    Anna’s sister is the bride. A cute girl, Carrie has wilted since the ceremony—without the veil, her updo looks weird and her lips have paled from reception-line kisses and chicken in puff pastry. Still, she and her groom look happy, dancing and giving warm nods to each new pair to join them on the floor. The song is familiar, yet Mona can’t quite place it—something from crepe-paper-covered OU formals.
    â€œPlease dance with me.” Mona reaches for Jack’s fingers on the table. “Just this one song.”
    â€œI really can’t dance.” He clasps her hand between his and smiles at Mona, but also at the couple across the table. “Best just to accept it as a character flaw.”
    â€œJack.” Even as she whines his name, she realizes she’s whining and that she probably shouldn’t. She probably
is
drunk. “It’s just your friends.”
    â€œHappy or sad?” Jack asks.
    It’s a game they play, based on a bookmark they saw at the University Hospital gift shop when Jack’s brother broke his shoulder in a biking accident four summers before. The bookmark offered a series of questions, the first one being “Are you happy or sad?” If you answered happy, it proclaimed you had nothing to worry about. At the