Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Kyle chuckles and admits, “Pretty sure she’s seen me flip someone off before, so yeah, she knows.” But in the same breath, she makes an excuse for her too. “How else was she supposed to show you the different colors, though?”
He grins and Cameron sighs.
“Can someone help me get dinner? We stopped and picked up pizzas on the way home,” Mom says, cutting off the argument. Like she knew would happen, the four of us dash for the Suburban. “Thank you."
Pizza nights were unusual at the Harrington house when we were growing up, and as such, we were basically feral as we fought to claim the number of slices we wanted. Not that there was a shortage. Mom bought plenty then, and now, there are no fewer than fifteen pizza boxes in the Suburban, plus smaller ones of bread and cheese sticks.
Each of us snatch a few, opening boxes to shove a slice into our respective mouths. “Chance’s missing out,” Kyle says around his mouthful. “Where’s he at?”
As we set our boxes on the kitchen island, Samantha answers. “On his way.”
“Sucks to be him,” Kyle answers, going for a breadstick now.
“Boys, plates are in the cabinet, and there’s different kinds, so don’t fill up on pepperoni,” Mom says as she grabs wine, beer, and soda from the fridge.
That was another part of the ritual of pizza nights. When we were kids, we’d drink so much soda that we’d nearly get sick. Later, beer and wine became options, which also led to a few upset stomachs, and a lot more fighting, to be honest. Somehow, nobody ever chose to drink water or anything else with pizza, though I don’t know why.
I never thought about the traditions we did have or how they came to be. I certainly never considered that tussles for the last slice of pepperoni or the cheesiest cheese stick would be a fond memory, not one that ignited fresh anger at having missed out again. But now, I can see how even those brotherly battles bonded us in ways. Some, more than others. But still, silly things like pizza nights did help us become and stay a family.
We take Mom’s hint as Kayla pulls a stack of plates from the cabinet and Cameron helps serve Gracie two slices of cheese pizza. Once she’s clear, we dive in to fill our plates and glasses, then make our way to the dining room table.
It’s probably strange to have pizza at the formal table, but it’s the only table that fits us all, especially with spouses and Gracie.
We dig in, happily munching on our pizza as Mom tells us how much fun she had with everyone today. “I can’t wait to do it again,” she exclaims right as Chance walks in.
“Shit, did I miss it?” he asks, his eyes jerking to me. I glare at him in answer, and he clacks his mouth shut before saying, “I mean, all that pepperoni . . . It’s my favorite.”
That’s obviously not what he meant, but no one calls him on it.
I wait for him to come back with his plate of pizza and take a swallow of beer. As if she can sense my nerves, Janey puts her hand on my thigh beneath the table. I didn’t tell her I was for-sure doing this tonight, but we’ve talked about it. She’s certain it’s the right choice. I hope to fuck she’s right.
“Mom, Dad? There’s something I want to tell you,” I start.
I swear a hush falls over the table, nobody even chewing because they don’t want to miss this over a bit of too-crunchy pizza crust.
“Yes, honey. What is it?” Mom asks, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.
I take a big breath. I should’ve planned what I was going to say, but I thought words would come to me in the moment. I was wrong. “In case you were wondering, I’m a private investigator.”
Yep, that’s it. No explanation or context clues or warning. Just a bomb drop of ‘here’s what I do for a living’ as if I’m someone they just met.
A solid two seconds later, which feels like an eternity, Mom gasps with wide eyes. “You’re a what? A private investigator? That sounds so dangerous!”
If there were Academy Awards for the Worst Supporting Actress, Mom would win hands-down. Her dramatics are on-par with Gracie telling a story about purple monsters dancing through her school hallway.
Mom looks to Dad for help, but he shrugs. “And?”
I‘m good at reading people. It’s literally my job, or at least a major part of it. But when I look from Mom to Dad and back, I can’t connect what I’m seeing with what I expected.
Confused, I try to clarify, asking blankly, “You know?”
“What do you mean? Of course we do,” Dad says. “We’ve always known. I couldn’t have my son out there doing God knows what. I got my guy to look into you years ago.”