As we pass through the rooms, I try to admire the rich, sophisticated atmosphere, the marble floors, the hideous paintings, but my stomach makes sounds better suited to a dog kennel at feeding time.
“I think your stomach is making mating calls,” Toraf whispers to me as we enter the kitchen. My blush debuts the same time we enter the kitchen, and it’s enough to make Toraf laugh out loud.
Rayna is at the counter, sitting Indian-style on a bar stool while trying to paint her toenails with the six different colors lined up in front of her. If she’s trying to make them look like something other than M&M’S, she’s got a long way to go. Mmm … M&M’S …
“Emma, I’d like you to meet my mother,” Galen says. He puts his hand on his mother’s back and launches her forward from the stove, where she’s stirring a pot bigger than a tire. She extends an oven-mitted hand for me to shake. She giggles when I grasp it. Galen’s mother is the most Italian person I’ve ever met. Big brown eyes, black curly hair piled like laundry on her head, and shocking red lipstick that matches the four-inch heels she’s got to wear to reach the top of that pot.
“I’m so excited to meet you, Emma,” she says. “Now I know why Galen won’t shut up about you.” Her smile seems to contradict the decades’ worth of frown lines rippling from her mouth. In fact, it’s so genuine and warm that I almost believe she is excited to meet me. But isn’t that what all moms say when introduced to their son’s girlfriend? You’re not his girlfriend, stupid. Or does she think we’re dating, too?
“Thanks, I think,” I say generically. “I’m sure he’s told you a million times how clumsy I am.” Because how else am I supposed to take that?
“A million and one, actually. Wish you’d do something different for a change,” Rayna drawls without looking up.
Rayna has outstayed her welcome on my nerves. “I could teach you how to color in the lines,” I shoot back. The look she gives me could sour milk.
Toraf puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. “I think you’re doing a great job, my princess.”
She wiggles out of his grasp and shoves the polish brush back into its bottle. “If you’re so good at it, why don’t you paint your toes? They probably stay injured all the time from you running into stuff. Am I right?”
Yeah? And? I’m about to set her straight on a few things—like how wearing a skirt and sitting Indian-style ruins the effect of pretty toes anyway—when Galen’s mom puts a gentle hand on my arm and clears her throat. “Emma, I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” she says. “I bet dinner would just about complete your recovery, don’t you?”
I nod.
“Well, you’re in luck, hon, because dinner is ready. Galen, can I get you to pull that pan out of the oven? And Rayna, you only set the table for four! Toraf, grab another place setting, will you? No, other cabinet. Thanks.” While issuing orders, she walks me to the table and pulls out a chair. After she rams it into the back of my legs until I fall on it, she scampers in her heels back to the stove.
Toraf sets the dish in front of me so fast it warbles like a spun penny. “Oops, sorry,” he says. I smile up at him. He slaps his hand on it to make it stop, then tosses a fork and knife on top. As he’s lowering my drinking glass, Galen catches his forearm and snatches it from him.
“This is glass, idiot. Possibly you’ve heard of it?” Galen says. He sets it down as if it’s a cracked egg, then winks at me. I’m glad he’s taken the contacts out—his are the prettiest of all the violet eyes here. “Sorry, Emma. He’s not used to company.”
“Very true,” Toraf says, sitting beside Rayna.
When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table. And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And … is that squid hair? Before I can think of a polite version of the truth—I’d rather eat my own pinky finger than seafood—Galen plops the biggest piece of fish on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only thing I can think of is to make it look like I’m hiccupping instead of gagging. What did I smell earlier that almost had me salivating? It couldn’t have been this.
I fork the fillet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can’t bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if real fish didn’t save me in Granny’s pond, the fake ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I’m expected to eat their cousins? No can do.
I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite first.
Of all the times to be a gentleman! What happened to the guy who sprawled me over his lap like a three-year-old just a few minutes ago? Still, I can’t do it. And they don’t even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go-to plan at Chloe’s grandmother’s house. One time Chloe even started a food fight to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna’s the only person I’d aim this slop at. Plus, I’d risk getting the stuff on me, which is almost as bad as in me.