Chapter 29 #3
“That sounds suspiciously like something losers say to console themselves after being thrashed with triple-word scores,” I said.
“Unbelievable! Not you too, Ollie. You’re supposed to defend me, not pile on.”
“I’m just saying, if we’re judging by Scrabble standards, fabricating nonsense isn’t quite the flex you think it is.”
“Fine. I see how it is.” He marched to the oven, throwing open the door.
“I’m calling it, these cinnamon rolls are heated to an acceptable temperature.
I cannot wait for the timer. I’ll need an extra dose of sweetness and carbohydrate glory to console myself from the multi-directional conspiring against me. ”
He retrieved the tray, setting it on the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” John said, moaning around his first bite. “Alright, that’s it, Suz, tomorrow we’re calling our lawyer. I need to revise our will. Everything needs to go to Oliver.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad. A cinnamon roll is all it takes to win your affection? Not the decades of memories we’ve built together? Not my undying devotion as your one and only son?”
“Not just any cinnamon roll. The softest, gooiest, most outrageously delicious cinnamon roll I’ve ever had the fortune to encounter. You form allegiances over a pastry like this. If you’d ever made me anything this scrumptious, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I didn’t realize your love came with a price tag,” Luke muttered.
“It doesn’t. I love you unconditionally. But if you’re looking to secure lifelong, unquestioning loyalty? That’s a separate department and payment is required to earn it.”
“In Luke’s defense,” I interjected. “He did help me make the frosting. And let’s be honest, a cinnamon roll without frosting is nothing but sad spiral-shaped bread boasting to be more.”
Luke puffed out his chest like some proud warrior. “Recognition at last. You’re forgiven for the earlier loser comment.”
“Well, if he contributed to the frosting, I suppose he’s earned the right to retain fifty percent inheritance,” John said.
Luke lifted his fork in salute. “Perfectly reasonable, I’ll take it. Not that it matters. I’ll wind up sharing my portion with Oliver anyway.”
He said it so casually, without any hesitation, like sharing his life with me, his legacy, even in jest, didn’t require negotiation, it simply was.
Vincent had money. More than I’d ever comprehended. But everything he’d given me under the aesthetic of generosity remained his. His home, his wallet, his rules. Nothing had ever been truly mine.
Luke gave, not to control but to include.
More than the act of giving itself, the implication floored me. He saw me as someone permanent. Someone whose presence in his life wasn’t a temporary arrangement, but a future certainty.
It should have occurred to me sooner. After all, we were here, meeting his parents. You didn’t do that for a casual fling. But it wasn’t until now that it hit—Luke saw a future with me. He wanted a future with me.
“These really are incredible, Oliver.”
Susan’s voice pulled me back into the present. I blinked, forcing myself to refocus.
“You have quite the talent,” she continued. “Thank you for sharing it with us.”
My cheeks flushed under the compliment. “Thank you, I’m glad you all like them.”
“Like is an understatement,” John said, “I love them. And now, with a stomach full of sugary excellence, I believe I am fortified to bring my A-game.”
With the table cleared and drinks replenished, we laid out the board.
I could hold my own in a game of Scrabble, in fact in my college days I’d had a reputation for my elite Scrabble talent, but from the moment the first tiles hit the board, it became clear Susan and John were here to win.
John had a talent for unearthing obscure words from impossible combinations, slotting them between existing letters with smug finesse.
Susan, meanwhile, was a tactician. Her mind saw patterns amidst the jumble of letters.
Then came Luke. Where his parents played with calculated mastery, Luke played with reckless abandon. No strategy. No game plan. Nothing but eager enthusiasm and impulse. While it didn’t earn him a lot of points, I found it charming.
After Susan earned one hundred and seventy-six points on her word, Luke laid down his latest contribution.
“Flablastchooneeze,” he announced, sitting back with a triumphant grin.
“And here we go,” John murmured, reaching for the dictionary.
“Sweetpea, that’s not a word.”
“It is a word. It’s a verb. It means to sneeze in a flamboyantly dramatic fashion. We’ve all seen it. Mom, you most of all, living with Dad.”
John looked up from the dictionary. “Not in here. No such word. Zero points.”
“Ollie . . .” Luke turned to me with imploring eyes. “Angel, help me out here. Surely you’ve been privy to a flablastchooneeze in your time?”
I tried to keep a straight face, but the moment the word landed in my mind with all its ridiculousness, I lost the fight. A laugh burst out of me. “It sounds so believable, I’m almost tempted to allow it.”
“Thank you! Finally, someone in this house who understands I operate on a higher linguistic plane.”
“But,” I added, raising a finger. “We’d be setting a dangerous precedent if we allowed it. If you make up a word, then we would all make up a word, and before you know it we’d be allowing anything to fly,”
“It would be straight-up anarchy,” John agreed.
Luke slumped in his chair. “You people are strangling the evolution of language. Shakespeare would have let me have it.”
John gave a dry grunt as he rearranged his tray. “Shakespeare made up words that at least made sense and had poetic resonance.”
“Please. Anyone who claims The Bard made sense is a pretentious, performative foghorn who couldn’t explain the meaning of ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ if it slapped them in the face with a bouquet.”
“I’m going to settle this,” I said, taking my turn and laying out the letters for a double triple word using all seven of my tiles, totaling a whopping three hundred and twenty-two points. “Read ’em and weep, everyone. I win.”
“Yes! Way to go, Ollie. It’s about time someone knocked these two down a peg,” Luke cheered.
“Damn,” John muttered, letting out a whistle. “Here we are throwing shade and swagger, and Oliver’s been sitting on a gold mine the whole time. Looks like we’ll have to start paying much closer attention to you.”
We played two more rounds. I managed to clinch the second game, but Susan triumphed in the third.
“Well,” Luke declared, pushing back from the table. “I think that means it’s time we get going. Better to leave on a high note.”
“High note?” John said. “The only sound I hear following you is the sad, flat whump-whump-whhhaaaaa of a trumpet.”
“If I had come here on my own, I’d agree. But with Ollie here I’m elevated. His victory is shared with me. That’s how this partnership works.”
I chuckled. “I’ll allow it, only because it’s obvious you need all the help you can get.”
“I can’t argue with that. Thank you for your generosity,” Luke said, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek.
As we lingered by the door, the promised leftovers in hand, Susan stepped toward me. “We’re so glad you came over, Oliver, and we had the chance to meet you. You’re welcome anytime. Now, no pressure, dear, but I would love to give you a hug to send you on your way, would that be okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
She stepped forward and enveloped me in her arms, protective, comforting, loving, and attentive all at once.
Something inside me swelled painfully with the realization I had never been held like this, not once, by the woman who gave birth to me.
But here stood Susan, a woman who had met me mere hours ago, holding me as if I were hers.
“You’re a wonderful young man, Oliver. I’m so glad you’re going to be a part of our family.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I repeated to myself. But I came close. What other reaction can you have when you’re invited into something you’ve never had?
John stepped forward and opened his arms, giving me a solid and brief hug, but still more than I’d ever gotten from my own father.
Giving my shoulder a firm pat, he said, “It was nice to meet you, son. Looking forward to seeing more of you. Someone’s gotta keep our boy in line now that Suzie and I aren’t around to do it full-time”
“I’ll do my best,” I said through the tangle of emotion tightening in my chest.
I hadn’t come here expecting to be loved. Acceptance, maybe. Politeness, sure. Perhaps a nod of approval if they were feeling generous. But over the span of a single evening, I had been offered something far greater. I had been treated like someone who belonged.