Chapter 37
Little Theo stands next to a boy who has a solo
Zoey
Dad? You’re early…and not alone.”
I was still sweaty from my two emergency grocery trips and my anxiety-ridden cooking marathon and hadn’t changed out of my shorts and sauce-splattered sweatshirt yet.
“I wanted to get a better parking space than your mother. Say hello to Brinsley,” my dad gruffly ordered, pointing to the young woman behind him, who appeared to be glued to her phone.
She had long blond hair swept back into a flawless ponytail and the dewy face of a woman who had never once skipped her skin-care routine.
“Hey,” she said, popping her gum without looking up from her phone.
“Uh, hey?”
So far, the birthday fiasco was right on schedule.
“Brinsley’s the assistant manager at the Banana Republic,” Dad said proudly.
That explained his rumpled linen shirt and leather flip-flops. This was the first time in my adult life that I remembered seeing my father’s toes.
“Brinsley’s also an influencer,” he announced, brushing past me into my apartment.
“Are you wearing sunless tanner?” I asked him. There was a distinct orange ring around his collar.
“Maybe. I dunno what the hell she put on me. Where’s the john?” He didn’t wait for a response and went in search of the bathroom.
Brinsley floated across the threshold, still typing on her phone. She was wearing a gauzy button-down stylishly tucked into a pair of cropped khakis.
“So nice to meet you. I’m Zoey, the younger, screwup daughter with the inconvenient birthday,” I said to her retreating back.
I should have pretended to be in Europe for my birthday. Next year, I was going to officially reclaim the day and put an end to this madness.
“I can’t believe you made me drive all the way here for your birthday and you couldn’t even bother changing out of your pajamas,” a flat, familiar voice groused from the open door. “But whatever Zoey wants, Zoey gets.”
My mother entered, carrying a crushed baker’s box with blue icing smeared on the lid. She was wearing a beige sweater two times too big for her frame over a pair of saggy, dirt-brown leggings. Her hair, even more silver than last time I’d seen her, was pulled back in a lumpy no-effort bun.
“Nice to see you too, Mom,” I said, going in for a hug. The offered affection startled her enough to make her back into the doorframe like I was a growling dog. I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder instead.
“Your cake fell off the back seat, so you’re just going to have to make do,” she said, recovering from the near hug and shoving the box at me.
“I told you we didn’t have to get together this year,” I said, staring down at the smooshed confection.
My mother scoffed. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of committing the crime of not celebrating your birthday again.”
We were off to a stellar, if predictable, start.
“Make yourself at home,” I said, gesturing toward the living room with my food-laden arms.
“You’re out of air freshener, and you need a new plunger,” Dad announced from the bathroom doorway.
“I see you brought a child with you, Richie,” Mom announced by way of a greeting to my father. She looked at Brinsley like she was covered in fire ants.
“Oh look. It’s my ex-wife. Did hell give you a half day today, Adrienne?”
I was in the process of shutting the door and trying to remember what cabinet I’d put the emergency whiskey in when an enormous bouquet of lilacs appeared in the doorway.
“Happy birthday, Zo,” the flowers said with a surprisingly masculine voice.
“Oh my God. Gage? What are you doing here?” I hissed, pushing him back into the hallway and following.
He lowered the flowers. “It’s your birthday. I want to spend it with you and yell at you for trying to sneak it past me.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide my birthday from you. I was trying to save you from this. You really don’t want to be a part of this,” I said desperately over the raised voices coming from my living room.
“Oh, but I do.”
Gage was a Bishop. The Bishops were a tight-knit family that actually enjoyed spending time together. The idea of Gage witnessing a meal with the Moodys was terrifying.
“You’re very handsome and thoughtful, and you’ll totally get points for the flowers. But I’m serious. My parents are…kind of weird and maybe a little mean? It’s a lot if you’re not used to it.”
“Tough shit. I’m celebrating with you,” he insisted.
I crossed my arms in frustration. “Hazel told you about this, didn’t she?”
“I plead the Fifth. Let’s just say there’s no way I’m letting you deal with them alone on your birthday.”
I shook my head. “I only have enough energy to fight with my family today, so I’ll let you have this little win. I mean, it’s a brave move. Brave and stupid. And I will be here to tell you I told you so in the end.”
He grinned, and my stomach took a pleasant nosedive for my toes. “Deal.”
“Oh please, Richie. Like you even know how to work a microwave,” my mom bellowed behind me. Two minutes in, and they were already fighting. Impressive but not a record.
“Stop distracting me with your hot cardigan,” I warned Gage. “I need to get back in there before one of them brings up Atlantic City 2001.”
“It was 2001, the kids were on spring break, and you insisted on dragging the whole family to Atlantic City,” Dad began.
Too late.
“We already have dinner plans tonight. No one’s seen you yet. Why don’t you go back to contracting or lawyering and I’ll see you later?” I offered. Then, because it was my birthday, gosh darn it, I grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him down for a fast, hard kiss.
He didn’t fight me, didn’t try to pull back and deliver a chaste peck. No, the man dove in and assumed control of the kiss, leaving me a quivery mass of lust on my own doorstep. Gage Bishop was dangerous.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Wow,” I managed to murmur dazedly.
Gage winked.
“Zoey, care to explain why you have your tongue down that man’s throat?” Mom demanded from the open doorway.
Gage and I broke apart to discover both my parents standing there looking like they were about to ground me. Brinsley was too busy taking a no-look selfie behind them to notice what was going on.
“This is Gage. He’s my…flower delivery guy.”
“I’m Zoey’s boyfriend,” Gage corrected.
“Oh, you are going to regret that,” I sang under my breath.
“Boyfriend?” Dad barked. He gave Gage a once-over, then shot a worried glance at Brinsley.
Great. My dad was concerned his girlfriend was going to leave him for my boyfriend…er…semi-regular sex partner. It was another birthday for the books.
“When did you get a boyfriend?” Mom asked, sounding like I’d just announced that I’d been nominated for a Nobel Prize.
“Uh, it’s new. We’re mostly just having sex. Shall we get this over with?” I asked, gesturing toward the table I’d decorated for myself in the living room.
“You’re joining us, aren’t you?” Mom said to Gage.
“He can’t,” I said almost as quickly as Dad growled, “No.”
“Of course he’s staying,” Mom announced and stepped back inside the apartment.
Dad pointed at Gage. “No funny business,” he said before joining my mother inside.
“Quick sidebar,” I told Gage, “in case Hazel didn’t give you the whole story.
When I was fourteen, my parents forgot my birthday for the third year in a row, and I threw a fit.
With a great deal of teenage angst and a mouthful of braces, I accused them of not caring about me.
They asked me what I wanted them to do about it, and I told them I wanted them to want to celebrate my birthday every year. ”
“A reasonable request.”
“Reasonable for adults who don’t survive on passive aggression.
Every year since, my parents’ version of ‘celebrating’ is showing up to remind me that I’m totally selfish for tearing them away from their lives for the day.
So I passive-aggressively do my best to make it a terrible experience for us all.
It’s super fun. And I’m hesitant to expose you to it because I don’t think you’ll want to have sex with me after experiencing it. And I really want birthday sex.”
“Hi, I’m Brinsley.”
I jumped back from Gage and stared at the woman’s outstretched hand. Her face was no longer obscured by her phone, and she was even prettier than I’d realized. I thought she was introducing herself to Gage, but it was me she was looking at.
“Uh, hi, Brinsley. I’m Zoey, and this is Gage,” I said cautiously.
She smiled in a way that showed no teeth or fine lines. “You have amazing skin,” she said to me.
“Thanks. Um, it’s been dry. From winter. And being in my thirties.” I was babbling, and Gage was smirking.
“Oh, I’ve got some great serum recommendations if you’re open to it,” she offered.
“Are you and my dad…dating?” I gagged just a little on the last word.
“If your mom asks, we are. But I feel safe telling you I’m actually just spearheading his midlife makeover.”
“Midlife makeover?” I repeated.
She showed me her phone. Her Instagram account was full of befores and afters of people going from frump to fantastic. She gave a humble little shrug, “It’s no big deal. Just half a million followers. I have a podcast too. Anyway, give me your number, and I’ll text you some of my recs.”
Rattled, I gave her my number, which put her attention back on her phone.
Gage put his hand on my arm. “Do you smell something burning?”
“Shit! The lasagna!”
I ran for the kitchen even though I knew it was already too late. I pushed my parents aside and threw open the oven door. Gage nudged me out of the way and pulled out the blackened lasagna.
“Damn it,” I muttered. I’d followed the recipe to a T, but I’d forgotten to set the mother freaking timer.
“Classic Zoey,” Dad snorted. “Makes us drive all the way out here, then tries to get out of feeding us.”