Shit. I can’t stop primping.
“Matthew honey, I thought you were going to come set the table,” my mom’s voice carries from the kitchen.
“Just taking a leak, Ma,” I call back with a smug grin on my face.
Which immediately gets wiped off when she suddenly appears, framed in the doorway two seconds later, arms crossed and wooden spoon clutched in one hand.
She looks pissed.
Amused, I grin before ducking out around her. “Sorry.”
My mom follows me back in to the kitchen, sighing. “Can you lose the Smart-Alek routine for five whole minutes? And don’t forget to set an extra plate for Molly’s roommate,” she reminds me, picking up a glass picture of water and handing it to me. “Take this into the dining room, please.”
But she’s not done lecturing me yet, her voice following me into the formal dining room as I place the water on the table and start taking place settings out of the side board. “Speaking of Molly’s roommate - can you be nice tonight and leave the poor girl alone...”
I roll my eyes at the ceiling and mutter to myself, “Poor girl? Hardly.”
My mom continues “…she is a guest in this house, and Molly’s roommate - not one of those icky girls that hangs out at the rink. I expect you to be a gentleman.”
Icky girls? Well shit, that’s a new one…
“Hey, do you know if Weston is coming?”
“I don’t think so? Maybe, but I doubt it. Molly said something about a press conference tonight?”
I remember those days as a college athlete: working my ass off every damn day of the week for the Wisconsin Badgers: not only did I play have several games per week during hockey season, the team practiced for hours each day in between, often doing press conferences and junkets just like the pro’s – without the benefit of pay (unless you counted full ride academic scholarships).
In fact, more than a few of my teammates had agents – those were the players trying to get drafted before graduation.
However, Weston (like myself at his age) has no intention of going pro until he’s done with graduation. His degree is his priority, and despite our differences (i.e. his banging my little sister) I respect him for that. Mindlessly, I set the table as my mom flits in and out of the dining room and kitchen, placing dishes on the long mahogany table.
I notice there are indeed mash potatoes, and smirk.
Cecelia
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself in to?” Molly asks as she steers her Jeep into the turnaround at her parent’s house, putting the Jeep in park and turning to face me. “Because my brother is going to act like a twelve year old having you in the house.”
Matthew’s Tahoe is parked under the basketball hoop, and the sight of it makes me shiver.
“I’m sure.”
Wide mischievous smile, Molly reaches for the door handle. “Alrighty. Then let’s do this.”
She’s right. Matthew is acting like a twelve year old.
Seated next to Molly, and across from Matthew, the small Wakefield clan is gathered around the large oval table – steaming plates passed all around.
“Cecelia, I noticed you haven’t tried my mom’s mashed potatoes.” Matthew’s statement comes from across the table where he’s seated. I look up and suppress an eye roll as he blankly stares at me.
Oh, okay. I get what he’s doing…
“Matthew! Don’t be rude. Cece, you do not have to take any potatoes. Please excuse my son.” Mrs. Wakefield’s face is bright red.
“Yes, Cece – please excuse my brother. He’s never had the best manners.” Molly rolls her eyes before reaching for the water pitcher, and refilling her glass. “Mom, remember when he used to beg to eat under the table when we’d go out to dinner? What was he, nine?”
Mr. Wakefield chuckles, buttering a dinner roll. “I remember. He kept sliding down in his seat, thinking we wouldn’t notice he was inching farther under the table. Little bugger.”
“He was nine?” I ask incredulously, fork suspended over the ham on my plate.
From Matthew, “Please stop.”
“Yeah. And he wasn’t a ‘little bugger’ – he was like Baby Huey. Nine years old and at least five foot five. I was six, and even I knew better than to eat under the table.” Molly looks at her brother with a raised brow. “I mean – what were you doing under there, anyways?”
Before he can respond, their mom cuts in. “He wanted to play Transformers.” Mrs. Wakefield grins at me as she forks a piece of ham. “He was obsessed with those tiny little dolls.”
“They were not dolls,” Matthew says, clenching his pearly white teeth and hissing through them. “They were action figures.”
“See? Obsessed.” Molly laughs into her glass, blowing up a few bubbles as she takes a sip of water. “You probably still have them, don’t you?”
“Shut up, Molly.”