With Love, from Cold World(86)

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lauren said, reaching out to shake Becca’s hand but getting treated to a hug instead.

“I can’t believe you came,” Becca said, ushering them both in and shutting the door behind him. “I mean, obviously I’m glad you did. We just finished eating, but there’s lots more in the kitchen, so help yourselves. We were just doing the gifts, so everyone’s in the den, if you wanted to . . .”

Asa couldn’t keep up with whatever his sister was asking him to do. She’d mentioned food, but was leading them right past it without pausing for them to fix plates, so he supposed they were meant to worry about that later. He hadn’t yet eaten and should be starving, but the idea of snacking on little appetizers while surrounded by his family and sister’s friends made his stomach twist. He’d forgotten that she’d be the kind of person who had a “den” now, in addition to the more formal living room they’d already stepped through at the front of the house. He couldn’t remember what her husband did, but it was something that clearly paid well, because he was willing to bet that most of their furniture had been sourced from actual stores instead of the side of the street.

When they entered the den, there were at least thirty people piled around the sectional and seated on wooden chairs that had been pulled over from the dining room, and every single pair of eyes immediately turned on him. Most people seemed to have an expression similar to the woman who’d answered the door, politely curious but welcoming, but Asa could only focus on the two people seated in the middle of the longest part of the couch.

His mother stood up, a shaky hand going to her mouth, while his dad stayed seated, his arms resting on his knees like he didn’t have a care in the world. God, they looked . . . older. Of course they did. But it still struck him—the gray in his father’s hair, the lines around his mother’s mouth. She was thinner than he remembered, but he didn’t know if that was the effects of time or memory. Probably both.

“This is my brother Asa,” Becca said, introducing him to the room with a bright smile. “The new uncle. And this is . . . I’m sorry, did you say Laura?”

“Lauren,” Asa bit out. Already he could feel himself getting defensive, ready to take any oblivious comment as a slight.

“Hi,” Lauren said to the group from next to him. “Congratulations on the baby. Madeline is a beautiful name.”

How the fuck did she know the name, when . . . Asa’s gaze caught on the banner hung up across one wall, realized there had been similar banners throughout their short journey through the house. Welcome, Madeline!!! Okay, so maybe his family didn’t have the corner on obliviousness.

“Oh!” an older woman seated on the armrest of the couch said, pointing directly at Lauren. “You can’t say that word!”

“They don’t have clothespins yet,” Becca said. “So that doesn’t count.” She turned to him, rolling her eyes in that private way she used to do across the dinner table when their dad was off on one of his lectures about living for God’s glory. It was the first time she looked like Becca, the impossibly cool older sister he remembered from childhood, and it socked him right in the gut.

Becca reached into a decorative dish on a side table, retrieving two clothespins, and handed them to Asa. “The idea is that you’re not allowed to say the b-word—you know, the kind of shower this is. If you do, someone can take your clothespin. If you catch someone else saying it, you can take theirs. The person with the most at the end gets a gift bag.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “It’s not much. A gift card and some nail polish.”

From the couch, his dad made a sound like a grunt. It could mean anything—was probably just him clearing his throat—but from the timing of it, Asa didn’t think so. He had an immediate flashback to the one time he’d painted his nails black in middle school, how quickly his mother had handed him the remover and told him to get rid of it. “You’ll be bullied,” she’d said. “I’m trying to protect you.”

And sure, there had been some snickers from kids in his class. But they hadn’t really bothered him as much as that look on his mother’s face, the way he knew even then that what she really meant was that she was trying to protect him from his dad.

Lauren took the clothespins from him, clipping one to her cardigan before clipping the other to the collar of his shirt. She leaned in, her mouth brushing his ear as she said, “Watch me clean up in this game.”

He snorted a laugh, the unexpectedness of it burning his nose. “So competitive,” he murmured, pulling her close to kiss her hair.

When he looked up, his mother was still standing, watching them with an expression of such raw pain that he had to glance around the room, blinking away the sudden sting at the corners of his eyes. There was a pile of wrapped presents in the corner by an empty wing chair, and he gestured vaguely over to it.

“You’ve got a lot left,” he said. “Go ahead and get back to it. We’ll stand over here.”

“I can get you chairs . . .” Becca started to say, but Lauren seemed to understand that he needed to be on his feet, needed to feel like he could bolt at any minute even if he had no intention of doing so. She demurred, saying they were fine as they were, and Becca took her seat again.

His sister proceeded to open a series of presents that made no sense to him—a breast pump that looked like a torture device, a long circular piece of fabric that was supposed to somehow wrap the baby against her body, a thing that heated up wipes. He was only half paying attention, trying to remember to smile or make a similar sound to the one other people were making. Most of his focus was on his parents. Even though he hadn’t looked directly at them since entering the room, he knew that his mother hadn’t stopped looking at him, whereas his father hadn’t glanced over once.