“I’m sorry.” I can’t help but walk over and give her a hug.
“Don’t be. At least I had someone. Ty tells me you’re kind of alone.”
“I have my brothers.”
“But you should have more, sweetheart. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. Just because I’m Ty’s mom doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me. I have a feeling you’re not going anywhere. Ty is a lot like his daddy. Once Rick had his sights set on me, there was no turning back for either of us.” A smile lights up her face as she gets all dreamy-eyed at the memory.
“I think Tyson is a lot like you. He’s a bit of a romantic.”
“I’m not surprised. When Tyson wants something, there is no stopping him. He was that way with football and now all this social media stuff. I had no idea there was so much money in it.”
“Me either,” I admit.
“Now you do.” She smiles, and it meets her eyes. I don’t know how I missed it. She’s so right. Here I thought Tyson wasn’t driven, but I was so wrong. He goes full force into the things he’s passionate about. “Tell me about your brothers. I saw a few videos of them, but I’d like to know more. They’re adorable.”
I get lost in telling her all about my brothers. That is until I hear them come in the door. Their voices bounce through the house. Cherie and I make our way toward the front of the house, where we find them along with Tyson and his father Rick.
“You boys ever thought about playing football?” Rick asks them.
“I’m killer at Madden, aren’t I, Tyson?” Dean looks up at Tyson. Logan has his arm wrapped around Tyson, leaning into him. Seeing them like this always brings a smile to my face.
“He sure is.” Dean preens under Tyson’s praise.
“You boys hungry?” Cherie asks, drawing their attention to her. I wonder a bit what they’ll think about her. She’s a modern-day June Cleaver.
“Always,” Logan shouts excitedly as the doorbell starts to sound through the house. At least that’s what I think it is.
“I’ll get it.” Rick walks over and opens one of the giant double doors. My heart drops when I see my mother standing there.
“Well, there you are. I think someone forgot my invitation.”
CHAPTER 17
TYSON
It’s like the fairy tale where the one witch doesn’t get her invitation but comes to the party anyway and spreads a black cloud of doom over the event.
When Sheila first arrived, Logan was thrilled. He abandoned his towel and duck-shaped floatie and raced over to throw his six-year-old body at his mother’s legs. She fussed over him, commenting how his swim trunks looked too tight and how he wouldn’t grow if too much of the pool chemicals got into his mouth. Logan opted not to swim after that. Whenever we asked him if he wanted to get in the water, he’d press his lips together and shake his head vigorously.
Dean got a different treatment. He is older and has a better understanding of his mother’s moods. He could tell immediately that despite Sheila’s smiles, his mom wasn’t happy. Logan stuck close to her—and to Dean—even as Sheila remarked that Dean didn’t like nuts when my mom brought out peanut butter cookies or that he hated football when my dad offered to play catch and that video games were for babies when I booted up the PlayStation. The boasts about being good at Madden weren’t repeated.
Rory got the best, and by best, I mean worst treatment. Everything from her hair—so bland, why haven’t you colored it like I suggested, to her face—very worn out, going to look like you’re forty in your twenties, to her weight—you’re supposed to be serving the café pies, not eating them or is that where all your tips are going.
“Rory looks perfect,” I’d said which is only the truth. Her mom’s response? That I was young and a victim of my little head doing all the thinking for me.
That led to my mom telling Sheila that we should all try to focus on the positive, to which Sheila said, “Easy for you to say, Cherie, given that you left all the dirt behind and climbed up the ladder to live in your ivory tower, forgetting about everyone who supported you when you thought spam was a delicacy.”
Spam’s fucking delicious, so I don’t know why that’s such an insult, but it shut Mom up. Dad wanted to say something in her defense, but Mom kind of shoved him out of the room, whispering something in his ear that kept his mouth glued shut.
Even now, as we sit together at our dining room table—the one that we never use because it’s too big and fancy—he hasn’t said much of anything. He carved up the ham, poured some drinks for the three adults, and proceeded to sit back and grind the back of his teeth together as Sheila continued a subtle attack against her three kids.