Chapter Nine Cake, Crocs, and a Cat
Chapter Nine
Cake, Crocs, and a Cat
Beverly
“Please be normal,” I beg.
“We are normal,” Mom says, holding up a knife and making horror-movie screeching sounds.
“Should I spend an hour showing him my coin collection?” Dad asks. “Or my baseball cards?”
“Dad.” I set the table, cautiously keeping an eye on him because Dad absolutely would sneak off to gather his binder of cards.
Griffin is arriving at our house with Ava in ten minutes.
I shouldn’t be nervous. My family is one of the most welcoming crews out there.
But…they’re also…well, I’m sure every family is weird, but my family is my family, and—what the—Uncle Greg walks past me, smacking his Crocs clogs across the hardwood floor and holding a three-tiered strawberry cake.
“When did you make that?”
Greg shrugs. “This afternoon.”
He and his Crocs move on toward the kitchen.
It’s not weird, but it’s also…I love my Uncle Greg, but who makes a three-tiered cake on a Sunday afternoon?
I glance at the clock hanging over the sink, next to our fridge scattered with magnets and—Is that a Polaroid of me as a baby in the bathtub? I cover it with an alligator magnet from an old family vacation to St. Augustine.
“Will you relax?” Greg asks, setting the cake on the counter.
He holds out a hand and slides it palm down across the air.
“Chill.” It’s easy for him to say. My uncle has relaxed every day of his life.
The only time he’s been questionably stressed was the weeks leading up to and following his divorce.
“I am chill,” I argue, pulling my shoulders up to my ears in a totally chill way.
Griffin is going to meet my family, and I have no clue what he’ll think of us. Maybe he’ll love everyone and all their baseball-card, slasher-impression, afternoon-cake-making fun. Or maybe…
Beau always laughed with Uncle Greg until he didn’t, and Beau thought Rob was a cute music-obsessed kid until he wasn’t, and my dad was Beau’s baseball buddy until baseball wasn’t cool anymore.
And listen, I’m not dating Griffin, and it’s unfair to compare him to Beau, but…
I’m protective of my family and their eccentricities.
Thankfully, the people in question are not remotely concerned.
Dad nudges the fireplace with the poker while Steely Dan spins on the record player.
He does a little solo jig on the carpet while Mom mirrors his energy, dancing across the living room with her spoon spinning in a mixing bowl full of brownie batter.
Greg reads his latest Western in a recliner but occasionally says aloud the parts he finds most interesting, even if nobody listens.
Nana waters the sticklike plants near the sliding glass door that are barely holding on for the winter.
Even Pudge and our cat, Steak, are fighting as usual, chasing and then rubbing against each other like it didn’t happen.
Life goes on.
I pull in a breath and let it out slowly.
This is just another guest. Just another family dinner. Nothing to worry about.
By the fireplace, Rob neurotically rearranges his video games on the shelf beside the TV—pulling one out, then putting it back, before pulling it out again and displaying it in front.
“I’m not sure Griffin plays video games,” I whisper.
“Oh, this?” Rob throws a thumb over his shoulder. “This isn’t for him.” He waves his hand away. “I was just cleaning. It’s…” He laughs with unease. “It’s not for him.”
The doorbell rings. Both Rob and I freeze, but Mom, Dad, Greg, Nana, and the animals keep existing normally.
I look at my watch. Griffin is five minutes early.
“I’ll get it,” I say, taking the carpeted steps down to our den. A dim lampshade illuminates the mismatched armchairs, plaid sofa, and foldout card table. Wood-paneled walls are covered in hiking photos, school pictures of me and Rob, and multiple out-of-sync ticking clocks.
I take a deep breath and swing open the front door. A long-expired Christmas wreath clangs against the outside. A wind chime tinkles on the porch in the breeze. And under the pale-yellow porch light, I’m greeted by Griffin with a red-faced Ava hiked on his hip.
He’s in a black hoodie, starkly contrasted by his daughter’s bright-pink puffer coat.
His long brown hair falls to the collar, with locks partially clutched in Ava’s fist. Neither of them smiles, but Griffin isn’t much of a smiler anyway.
He speaks through his eyebrows. Right now, he raises a single one—a Hey, how’s it going?
“Hey,” I respond, but my mind is racing. I hope he doesn’t want to shake hands. My palms are clammy. I shut my eyes.
Now, why would he want to shake hands, Beverly?
When I open them again, his single eyebrow arches higher. “Everything all right?”
I nod. “Yep. Come on in.”
Griffin wipes his boots on the doormat and crosses under the doorjamb. He turns slightly to guide himself through with Ava. Even if he didn’t have her, his bulky shoulders may not have made it.
I turn on my heel and guide him toward the stairs. “So, they’re gonna ask too many questions, but you don’t have to answer them.”
He grunts. “I’m not going to ignore your family.”
“And Rob is a huge fan of yours, so don’t mind him.”
“Who’s Rob?”
“My little brother. He’s also going through that phase where anything cool is automatically not cool, so don’t be offended. I swear he adores you.”
“I’m cool?”
The stairs creak as we head back upstairs. Griffin ducks as the low ceiling opens to the top floor.
Mom leans against the kitchen counter. “And who didn’t refill the coffeepot?”
My dad immediately points to me before I’ve crested the top stair.
“Tattletale,” I throw back.
Mom crosses the kitchen with her hand stuck out and a beaming smile to greet Griffin.
“Hi.” My mom is relaxed around those she knows, but she approaches everyone new with intentional kindness. It’s professional. It’s years of practice being Albert Starling’s daughter. “I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier. You can call me Cheryl.”
Griffin firmly shakes with the hand not clutching Ava. My mom is short like me, and it’s funny watching how he towers over her, swallowing up her petite hand with his. Is that how we look side by side?
“Nice to meet you,” Griffin says. “Your home is beautiful.”
He’s polite. I would say it must be public relations training, but I doubt they teach you how to compliment moms at dinner or treat them with respect by not giving a limp handshake. Plus, his interviews are terrible.
Griffin attempts lowering Ava to the living room hardwood, but her legs wrap around his body in resistance, so she slides down his pant leg instead, landing with a plop on the floor.
“Want a drink?” Dad asks. “We have beer, wine, or whiskey, if you’re up for it.”
Griffin’s eyes follow Ava, toddling over to the sliding glass door and pressing her palms against it. “I’m fine, but thank you.”
Pudge gives a small woo-woo, waddling to Ava with a wagging tail. Griffin tenses the closer he gets, but Pudge gives one sniff and walks away uninterested.
“Pudge is harmless,” I explain. “Just overfed. Same with this one.” Steak tentatively watches from Mom’s feet, eyes narrowed.
“Cat!” Ava squeals, reaching her hand out. Steak doesn’t move an inch.
You couldn’t at least try? I want to plead, but Steak glares as if to respond, Don’t test my patience.
“Anyway, you’ve met my dad,” I say, gesturing to Dad, who gives a goofy wave with his fireplace poker. Oh God, please put that down. He looks like a casual serial killer.
“And this is Uncle Greg.” Greg is halfway over, Crocless and instead wearing his fluffy house socks with llamas.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Greg says, shaking hands as well. Greg is taller than my mom, inheriting their father’s genes instead of Nana’s, but even he can’t reach Griffin.
“And that’s my brother, Rob,” I say.
Rob is sitting on the couch, staring down intently at his video game.
“Robert!” Dad calls.
Rob finally blinks up. “Oh, sorry, what’s going on?”
“Griffin Harvey,” I say, pointing out the very obvious, very famous, stranger in our house.
“Remember?” Mom calls over. “You listen to his album on repeat.”
“Momma!” Rob’s eyes, once hooded and distracted, pop open. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sputters, tossing Griffin a twitchy smile.
“Didn’t you sing his song at that Christmas karaoke last month?” Dad throws in.
Rob shakes his head, messy brown hair falling into his eyes. “That is so not—I did not—”
“Wait, no, you bought valentines with his face on them,” Greg throws in.
Nana waves her hand, coming out from her bedroom in the hall. “Y’all, stop bullying my boy.”
“Nana, I’m not—they’re not bullying me.” Rob slouches into the cushions. “I didn’t get valentines with your face, man.”
Griffin shrugs. “I don’t think they even make those.”
Rob clears his throat. “They do.”
Nana paces toward Griffin with her arms extended.
“Griffin, good to see you again, honey.”
She pulls him into a hug and holds firm. My hands tense, but then…a little smile grows on Griffin’s face. It feels secretive—the kind that lifts at only one corner, like it’s too soon to abandon skepticism. Familiar, yet not, similar to an old friend from high school you run into at a reunion.
Nana pats him on the back as she pulls away. “And there’s the sweet girl.” She hunches to wave closer to Ava. Ava shuffles her way back to her dad’s legs.
He nudges her with his shin. “Can you say hi?”
She’s silent, but after another nudge, she waves, then buries her face in Griffin’s black denim pant leg.
“We’ll work on it,” Nana says, throwing a wink to Griffin. “Too attached to her big brother, I suppose.”
Brother.
Griffin doesn’t counter. He smiles again. The sight is so foreign and rare, but a little zip runs through my chest, like I’m touching lightning in a bottle.
“We have juice boxes in the fridge for her,” my mom says, nodding to Ava. “Would she like one?”
“Oh, sure. Grape’s her favorite, if you have it.” His smile stiffens. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” Nana says. “We’ve got it all handled.”