The Reunion(11)

I take a seat next to Ford on the cream-colored love seat my parents have had for years. “Lying is the only way I can get out of this house and back to Seattle before midnight.”

“He refuses to spend the night here and commute in the morning,” Mom says. “Probably hoping for a late-night hookup on that fancy app of his.”

“Is that what you use it for? Hookups?” Palmer asks, laughter in her eyes.

“I barely even use it. Haven’t had the time with everything Mom and Dad have me doing around the house,” I say, the perfect lead-in for Mom.

But, of course, instead of taking it, she says, “Did you know Cooper went to see Nora yesterday?”

“Nora McHale?” Ford asks. “Was it a date?”

“What? No,” I say before Mom can interject with her wild fantasies about what could have possibly happened. “I didn’t go to see Nora, Mom, I went to order the cake.”

“Something he could have done over the phone.” Mom conspiratorially nudges Palmer. “But no, he went into the store. I think he’s still smitten from their one-night stand.”

“Ooooooh,” Palmer coos.

“Wait.” Ford furrows his brow. “Isn’t she friends with—?”

“Can we not?” I ask, growing frustrated. “Jesus, when did my dating life become a point of conversation in this family? To my knowledge, I’m not the only child who is single.”

“But you’re a divorcé looking for a second shot at love. It’s more interesting,” Palmer says.

“Larkin always talks about the second-chance romances she likes to read,” Ford adds, stealing the attention away from me. Thank God.

Palmer props her chin up on her fist, ignoring her pudding. “Please, tell us more about what Larkin likes.”

“Don’t even start with that,” Ford says. “She’s my assistant and that’s it.”

“Uh-huh.” Palmer blinks. “Surrrrre, Ford.”

Ford doesn’t even bother to respond but instead puts a spoonful of pudding in his mouth.

“You know, your mom was my assistant before we hooked up in the back of the store, in a canoe,” Dad says, picking up a raspberry and plopping it in his mouth.

Together, we all groan.

Yes, this is my family.

We might not see each other often, but when we’re in the same room, the oversharing and invasion of privacy is boss level.

“On that note, Mom, Dad, don’t you have something to tell Palmer and Ford?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes narrow at me, but I don’t even care. They need to get it over with.

“Are you sick, Mom?” Ford asks, his expression full of concern.

“Are you?” Palmer asks, uncrossing her legs and facing them now.

“No, I’m not sick.” Mom sets down her pudding bowl on the coffee table. “I wasn’t planning on saying anything to you tonight, since you just got here, but it seems like your brother has another idea.”

“What’s going on?” Ford asks, setting down his pudding bowl as well.

Mom reaches out and takes Dad’s hand in hers. “We’ve been doing some thinking about our future, and Cooper has been a strong, guiding force behind this decision”—she didn’t need to add that part, but fine—“and after some long conversations and tough decisions, we’ve decided to sell the house.”

“What?” Palmer says loudly while sitting up taller. “Sell this house? Our childhood home? The one we’re sitting in right now? This house?”

“Do you think they have other houses we’re unaware of?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Palmer says, panic in her voice. “Maybe they do, and that’s where they hide the other halves to Dad’s socks.”

As a collective whole, we all glance at Dad’s socks.

Where are the other halves?

“Are you really selling?” Ford asks, his voice strained but not as alarmed as Palmer’s.

“We are,” Dad confirms with a sturdy nod. “We found a wonderful apartment in the heart of Seattle, right off Western Ave. It’s close to Cooper, walking distance to the water, and the apartment building has all the amenities we’re looking for, including very socially awkward programmers who are excited to have a mom in the building who’s willing and excited to bake cookies for the floor.”

“We’ve made the rounds and introduced ourselves already,” Mom adds.

“Wait.” Palmer closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Hands extended, a slight shake to them, she says, “You’re going to exchange our childhood memories for a throng of programmers?”

“They’re very sweet when you get them to finally open up. Want me to ask if any of them are single?” Mom asks, growing excited.

“No,” Palmer practically yells. “I don’t get it. What’s the appeal? You love it here. You’re not city people. You’ve spent your whole lives on Marina Island—you grew your business here, you raised your children here—why are you all of a sudden going to move to a high-rise apartment in a city you never even liked? Is this what a late-life crisis looks like?”

Ford turns toward me. “Was this your idea?”

“Not really,” I answer, feeling the blaze of my siblings’ disapproving stares. “They were saying how they couldn’t keep up with the house anymore, they kept calling me to fix everything, and I offered a solution.”