Chapter 11
Callie
“It’s just so frustrating. The astronauts have to be able to kick the box on the spacecraft, which is supposedly a reasonable request. But apparently, just asking them not to kick it is out of the question.” Imogene groans into her soup.
“Will it float once they’re in space?” Across the table, Chris pretends to look mildly interested in my oldest sister’s dilemma. Maybe he’s regretting his life in finance and looking for something to take him to new heights.
Imogene eyes him suspiciously. “It’s likely, why?”
Chris shrugs. “Maybe they’re just trying to plan on it accidentally getting kicked in midair, not necessarily on the ground.”
“That is … mildly helpful … ” Despite the semi-positive sentiment, Imogene looks ready to vomit.
“It may be worth considering,” Connie offers. Her soft voice carries in the stupidly big dining room made for company dinners and family parties with relatives you’ve only met twice in your life.
As the soups are taken away, my father rubs his hands together. “Great news, I’ve secured the Aspen Point Grand Ballroom for the annual New Year’s party again this year.”
At the opposite end of the table, Lillian nods approvingly, as if this is something new and noteworthy.
It’s definitely not, since we’ve had the party in the Grand Ballroom every year since I can remember.
Connie looks across me to our father. “Have you decided on a theme, Daddy?”
“Not yet, my darling girl.” Dad’s tender smile accompanies doting eyes reserved only for his favorite daughter. “But I want something classy, timeless. Prescott, any thoughts?”
My oldest brother looks up from tonight’s white alba truffle pasta, mouth completely full with him caught completely off guard. Choking down the bite, heat rushes to his cheeks as he clears his throat. “I’m sure whatever Mom puts together will be perfect,” he says, waving his fork in her direction.
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “And to think, it’s only Tuesday,” he grumbles to himself.
Rolling his neck, Dad turns back to his oldest. “Of course it will, but that’s not the point.
The point is for you to care about how our family is presented at our annual gathering, since our most important clients will be there.
” Disapproving eyes peer down the table at Prescott.
My brother swallows, squaring his large shoulders.
If he wasn’t a giant booger of a human, I’d almost be intimidated.
Pressing a napkin to his lips, Prescott turns to face my dad.
“I do care about how we look to the clients, but that’s why we have a whole events and marketing team that takes care of worrying about things like that—so we don’t have to. ”
Connie gathers another bite of pasta. “What about gold and black?” That woman’s voice may sound like a bunny, but it carries authority. She’s nothing if not sure of herself.
Ira’s unamused face stretches into a grin rivaling the crescent moon out tonight. “With mirrorballs everywhere,” he finishes. My father claps his hands together, soft from years spent behind a desk. “That’s brilliant, darling.”
To Connie’s credit, she doesn’t brag. She doesn’t gloat. While all my other siblings would look smug and eternally proud of themselves in this rare moment of validation from our cold father, Connie simply returns to her pasta.
“Oh,” I say, speed-chewing my food so I don’t lose the thought, “Connie, I meant to tell you. Aaron’s band is playing again this Friday.”
On the other side of my favorite sister, Chris’ jaw seems to clamp down on whatever he’s currently chewing.
Connie freezes before remembering she has an audience. Barely turning my way, she shoots me a timid smile. “That’s good to know. Thank you, Calloway.” Pushing around what remains on her plate, her freckled cheeks show the slightest hint of a blush stain.
“Yeah, several of us are going,” I continue.
Mainly so the rest of our family doesn’t start the Rutherford family inquisition on why Connie suddenly looks extremely interested in her least favorite dish since childhood.
“Ian’s trying to get Aaron to save us a table.
You know, so we don’t have to fight our way to a seating arrangement this time.
” Awkward laughter echoes, filling the stilted silence.
“Don’t we already have plans this Friday?” Chris turns to his twin. Ginger brows raised, you don’t have to be part of their twin connection to understand his message.
Connie frowns at her partner in crime. “No. Besides, if you want to watch those silly space movies again, you're more than welcome to do so by yourself.”
“You said you loved them,” he accuses, taken aback.
Across the table, Imogene scoffs. “Oh, please. You’re the only one of us who got the super geek gene.” She points an empty fork at him with the accusation.
“Excuse me?” Chris’s ears match his hair.
Imogene shrugs. “I’m just saying, how many comic books do you have in your collection now?”
“Those are collectibles.”
Prescott smirks, taking arms with his sister. “You said the same thing when you were seventeen and couldn’t get a date to the prom.”
“I had better things to do than go to some stupid dance.” Chris puffs up his chest.
“Like sitting at home alone watching your space movies?” Prescott asks, feigning innocence.
Connie’s twin sputters, looking for words while Connie glares at the others from across the table.
It’s always fun to feel a Rutherford sibling riot brewing. The air gets thick. Blood pressures rise. The animals get really quiet. But as much fun as it can be to watch my siblings hurl every insult in the book at one another, I’ve got a busy week.
“So, Scotty boy—”I grin at the dark look shot my way at hearing his least favorite nickname“—is Marigold doing okay?”
“Why?” is the curt response I receive.
Shrugging, I look at the empty seat next to him. “Because she’s not here tonight and, I mean, with the holiday coming up and being in a single parent household … "
“She’s at dance class.”
“But she’s doing okay other than that?”
Prescott sighs. “She’s fine, Calloway.”
“Really? Because it’s not unusual for kids in single parent households to feel heightened emotional challenges that may not always be present the rest of the year.
” I take a big gulp of my water while my brother looks ready to be sick.
“Loss, stress and increased emotional strain can be pretty common.”
Down the table, Chris snorts. “Where’d you get that? Dr. Hotness?”
Glaring at my self-declared arch nemesis, I count to three. Extra slowly. “No,” I say carefully, “believe it or not, I do know some things about children. Since, you know, I work with them every day and all.”
While Mom’s attention can have the tendency to drift off during conversations that don’t interest her—like ones involving the mundane parts of her kids’ lives—the mention of Oliver brings her back to life. “Where is Oliver tonight, dear?”
Blinking at my mother, it’s all I can do to remain seated.
You’re not found out, you’re not found out.
“W-why?” If Connie ever tried to ingest some helium, this is about what she’d sound like.
Clearing my throat, I try again, ignoring the strange looks I’m receiving from every person at the table. “I mean, why do you ask?”
Mom pushes back her plate, signaling to the staff that we’re done.
“He may have given me some things to consider—oh, I got hot cocoa delivered from the store today. But you looked so together a few weeks ago, and I haven’t heard you mention him even once tonight.
I’m surprised you’re out of each other’s sight.
” She sends a sly grin down the table to Dad.
Gross.
That exact look is probably why I’m even here today.
“Reminds me of when we were young and in love,” Mom continues. Man, I guess we did a better job than I realized.
“It’s called taking a breather. Some space.” But I’m certainly not about to admit how much I’ve missed having an excuse to talk to him in the nearly three weeks since Thanksgiving.
Not that I’ve heard from him, either.
“Good,” Chris says, tossing his napkin onto the table, “that guy gave me the creeps.”
“Rude,” Connie chides. Turning to me, her sweetest smile graces those soft features. “I think he was lovely, Calloway.”
Heat floods my face. “Oh, um, thanks,” I mumble.
Across the table, Prescott leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Genny, what did you think about Dr. Streets?”
“Rhodes,” I bite out.
Prescott dismisses me with a wave.
Beside him, Imogene shrugs. “I dunno, I thought he was nice enough.” A grin slides onto her face as she looks at Chris. “I know you didn’t like him because he’s in the doctorate club. Isn’t that right?”
Chris rolls annoyed eyes as he flips her off.
“Christopher Irving Rutherford, absolutely not.” Dad thunders, even as a smirk threatens to break through. “Especially not at the table.”
Turning to my brother, I smile as sweetly as possible.
“And to think, there may be some poor woman out there who will love you the way Oliver loves me.” The fake way.
“When you do find her, I’ll be sure to send her my condolences.
” I can practically see his middle finger twitching, begging for sweet release.
Letting out the biggest fake yawn I can conjure, I push back from the table.
“Well, I hate to break up the party, but I have a big week.”
“Taking your kids to Munchkinland?” Chris sneers.
“Yep,” I reply, not missing a beat, “but before that, we have our holiday program the day after tomorrow. So I’m gonna head home. There are a couple of reindeer costumes that need hemming.”
“Calloway,” Connie peeks up at me as I stand, “would you mind giving me a ride home?”
Confusion casts a heavy light over both Chris and myself. We even make awkward eye contact to confirm it.