I take my phone with a laugh and shove it back in my pocket.
“I wanna see,” Alex complains loudly with bread in his mouth.
“Too late.” I smirk at him, and suddenly we’re both acting twelve.
Lilly happily forks up her dinner, chewing, swallowing and explaining. “So I was there when he dropped the box, and we all heard it crash, his roommates and me. I’m best friends with his roomie Eliza—she and I were roommates last year. Anyway, we’re all sitting there when Roman walks in the room, and for whatever reason, the box falls out of his hands. I saw that it had FRAGILE written all over it on all four sides, and we could hear the pieces—literally hear the thing break.” Chew, chew. Swallow. “It was so sad, I wanted to die.”
My mother’s brows rise.
“I jumped up and looked inside the box, and ugh, poor Roman.” She hangs her head in mock sorrow. “I love crafting and don’t get to do it very often, so I figured if I couldn’t fix it, I could at least jazz it up, you know?”
My parents stare at her like an alien has taken over the dinner conversation.
“It looks so great.”
“It does look great,” I agree happily. “Different but great.”
Lilly laughs. “I used an entire bottle of glitter glue. I mean, they’re small bottles, but that just shows you how messed up the thing was.”
The thing.
My mother blanches.
Aunt Myrtle hoots like an old hen. “Loretta, you should see your face!”
“I wanna see!” my brother repeats, sounding like a parrot who only knows one phrase.
“Alex, eat your dinner and stop interrupting.” This from Dad.
“The award is splendid. I put it right in the center of my bookshelf.”
“Splendid,” Lilly says, glancing around the table at my family, her pert nose wrinkling all cute-like. “Don’t you love it when he uses those kinds of words to describe things?”
Mom gets a faraway look in her eye as if Lilly has just called her oldest son the most handsome guy in all the land.
She needs to stop.
“When did the two of you start dating?”
“Dating, ha!” Aunt Myrtle’s hot pink lipstick has migrated to her two front teeth, the rest of it virtually gone from the occasional blotting of the linen napkin against her mouth to remove pasta sauce—makes for an interesting sight. “What you kids do these days isn’t dating. You all get handsy with each other before you know the other person’s last name.”
“Aunt Myrtle, that’s not true.” Why am I defending my generation? It’s mostly true. People these days will have sex with someone and not even know their name—let alone last name.
“What’s the girl’s last name?”
“First of all, Auntie, her name is Lilly—not girl.”
The old woman rolls her eyes like a teenager. “What’s Lilly’s last name?” She primly takes a bite of lasagna, little lips pursed as she chews and judges me.
How the heck would I know what her last name is? I’ve only met her—uh…I mentally do a tally of the times Lilly and I have been in the same room together—three times!
“Aunt Myrtle, you’re being ridiculous.” Mom’s chuckle is a forced, nervous one.
“It’s Howard,” my friend supplies.
“You weren’t supposed to say it! He was!” My old aunt raises her arm, bangles jangling, sleeve billowing, her thin drawn-on eyebrow arched. It’s crooked and doesn’t match the other one, but Aunt Myrtle doesn’t give a shit.
She does just fine judging us without two symmetrical brows.
“Lilly Howard,” I tell her with a satisfied smile, giving Lilly a little nudge with my elbow where no one can see it. Beneath the table, she pats my thigh before returning her hand to her own lap.
The move does not escape my mother’s notice.
My dick—who also noticed the innocuous thigh pat—twitches a little.
“What’s your major, Lilly?” Dad wants to know. I know he’s making idle conversation and being polite, probably trying to change the topic, too.
“I’m an English major with a business minor.” She hesitates, pushing some food around on her plate before adding, “My parents wouldn’t let me major in art.”
I heard those exact words three years ago when we were incoming freshmen.
“Why not a business major with an English minor?” My brother chimes in, and I want to clock him for asking such a rude question.
“It’s not a major I want to study at all, so I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course it matters.” Alex is twelve, but he’s also a pompous little know-it-all, partly because he’s also brilliant, partly because he’s a spoiled brat.
“Hi, we’re not talking about school, remember?”
“Oh shit, sorry.” Dad apologizes for bringing up the subject, and I can see his brain searching for another one.
Lilly doesn’t wait for anyone to ask her questions. She moves on with one of her own. “Aunt Myrtle, Roman tells me you date a lot. Which apps are you on?”