“Like I said, he’s not in management. In fact, he’s working on a groundbreaking app while you sell dog food and toilet paper.”
“Wow,” I say dryly. “Guess you put me in my place, brother.”
“Kids,” Dad sighs.
“Congratulations,” I mutter and lift my eyes to Eli. “On all of your success.”
This is hell. Knowing he’s successful, rich, and no doubt has a running car. Not only that, but his gene pool is also far superior to others. The dating app I used for all of five minutes—with suggestions of profiles of men in my age range—is a testament to that. I have no doubt British women would happily engage in a street fight for him. He probably has weekdays to go with his female roster. Molly Monday, Tina Tuesday, Wendy Wednesday, or some shit like that. He most definitely isn’t the laughingstock of his firm.
I doubt he had no one to spend Christmas with. He probably opted out of any one of his weekday girl invitations to show just how serious they shouldn’t take him. Eli is not a commitment man, nor a family man, which only makes me curious as to why he chose to spend his holiday stuck in the middle of the mountains with my family. Instead of asking the question on the forefront, I fork some lasagna and shove it in my mouth.
“So, you two know each other?” Dad speaks up, finally catching on while hinting for some back story.
Wonderful.
“Yes, Sir,” Eli answers, “we dated in college.”
“How long?” Thatch asks.
“Briefly,” I reply.
“Wasn’t that brief,” Eli says, challenging me, “eight months.”
“That’s a pretty long time,” my father agrees.
“A blip,” I say.
“Old College flames,” Dad muses, “Isn’t that something.” He reaches for and squeezes Mom’s hand, oblivious to the growing tension. “I got lucky in high school. She told me off the day I met her, and I’ve been chasing her every day since.” They share a smile, and I feel Eli’s eyes on me again.
“Whitney spoke of you often. I know the story.”
“Do you?” My mother smiles.
He wipes his mouth and again lifts his gaze to mine. “She never shied away from talking about her family.”
“So, what’s on the agenda tomorrow?” I ask Dad, trying to bring the questions to a halt.
“It’s all in the emails. So, you two—”
Gracie has the good sense to speak up. “Gramps, Auntie Whit doesn’t want to talk about it, gah, so stop asking questions.”
“Thank you, nine-year-old,” I scold every adult at the table, “for being able to pick up on crystal clear social cues. Sorry,” I offer Eli in a bullshit apology, clearly substituting my discomfort to insinuate his own.
“It’s fine,” he says, “I’m totally fine with it.”
“It was delicious, Mom. Thank you.” I toss my napkin down before standing and grabbing a few plates. “I’ve got the dishes.”
Eli stands. “I’ll help.”
Perfect.
Drying the last plate, I glance over at Whitney, who’s scrubbing the empty lasagna pan.
“Tastes just like I remember it,” I compliment, in an attempt to jog her memory of the first time she cooked for me.
She makes a non-committal noise, working the scrubber like it’s her job.
“Want me to work on it a minute?”
“I’ve got it.”
We’ve barely had a minute alone since we started cleaning due to the bustling chaos around us. It’s clear there’s a delicate Collin’s family ecosystem in which chores are doled out by age per family. I’ve been assigned to Whitney moving forward because she’s the only one who didn’t, in Brenden’s words, “spouse up.”
Upon closer inspection, I notice she’s gained a little healthy weight over the years—which I appreciate. She was a little on the thin side in college. Her hair is the same length as it was back then, running just past her shoulders, her lashes still ridiculously long. Aside from the outrageous amount of makeup she’s wearing—which she seems to not at all give a fuck about—she looks very much the same.
“So, advertising—”
“If you recall, I was in some of the same business classes you took. Same professors.”
“I know, but I thought you’d—”
“Do something with it? I did. I use both majors.”
“Creating jingles for campaigns? You were so goo—”