He scowls and turns away from the cabinet. “No.”
I watch him wheel to the door.
“Wait, my backpack’s in...”
“Goddamn it,” he says.
“...your way.”
“Can you pick up the damned thing?”
I go to move it, and my copy of Hamlet falls out. I bend to get it, and find myself at eye-level with Julian’s legs.
He’s in sweats, the right leg of which has been cut off just below the knee. There’s a white cotton sock-type covering on his half leg.
“Stop it,” he says.
“Stop what?”
“Staring.”
I feel my face start to burn. “Sorry. Are you in a lot of pain from it?”
“From what, having to deal with you?”
I sigh and set my bag on a kitchen chair. “Must you always be such an asshole?”
“Must you always leave your crap all over the place—your bag and wussy play...”
“What wussy play?” I ask.
“Hamlet,” he says with a grimace. “Total wuss. Once he received the order to kill his uncle he shouldn’t have hesitated.”
Wait, hold on. Is Julian trying to make actual conversation with me here? “Maybe it wasn’t that simple for him,” I suggest, having seen the movie.
Julian gives me a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And we’re back to arguing. “It just means maybe he didn’t find the prospect of killing someone so easy.”
“You think I find killing easy?”
I stare at him in shock. “I never thought anything even remotely like that, Julian. Look, I know you like picking fights with me. But this one’s ridiculous.”
“You’re saying I’m ridiculous?”
Before I can think of an answer, we’re interrupted. “Oh, Cami, you’re home for lunch. How fantastic.”
Enter Estella—the Broussard family’s very own UN peacekeeper.
“Did you take your noon meds?” she asks Julian.
“I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”
Estella is quiet. Shelby comes in behind her and wags her tail at me. I reach down to pet her. “Hey, baby.”
“And by the way, that ‘baby’ of yours needs to stay off my bed,” Julian says.
Hah. Good job, Shelby. Way to annoy him. “She thinks it’s my bed still. That’s why.”
“While I’m in there, she needs to stay off it.”
I glance at Estella, who gives him a scolding look. “What?” he says. “She wipes her ass all over my pillow.”
“She does not.”
“She does, too. She snores and drools and makes a hundred disgusting noises.”
“Cat person,” I say, petting Shelby still.
“I’m not a cat person. I love dogs. Normal dogs who aren’t annoying and disgusting.”
“I’ll have you know Cavalier King Charles spaniels are a highly desirable breed.”
“Yeah, sure they are,” he says.
“Don’t worry. Shelby’s mostly deaf, but she’s not blind or stupid. I’m sure she’ll start avoiding you soon enough.”
“Good, because I’m kicking her to the carpet from now on, I don’t care how old she is.”
“Yes, let’s pick on the old and infirmed,” I say, glaring at him. In his wheelchair.
Julian’s face clouds over, and suddenly, I feel slightly guilty.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Estella says. “Let’s just try to survive lunch, all right? Julian, we’ll do our best to keep the dog out of your room.”
Julian turns his back on both of us and heads for the door. “Good.”
Chapter Eight
The one night a week we have dinner as a family at home is always Tuesday, because on Tuesdays the restaurant is closed. Now, Estella is a lovely person in many ways. I’m pretty much glad Dad married her. He seems very happy with her. But the woman can’t cook. And living with a French chef husband and his chef-trainee daughter, this can make for some pretty amusing meals.
Me, I’m cool with eating just about anything. I mean, I like good food but I’m not a picky eater. I’m fine with normal stuff. Dad, though, is extremely picky. Like, if there’s a grill mark that’s a bit too dark on the meat he won’t touch it. If the crust is cut off the sandwich but a tiny bit remains, he’ll have to cut that bit off as well or he won’t eat it. And Dad is not only ridiculously selective about food, he’s also snooty about it. He only buys and brings home the freshest and best ingredients. Estella, on the other hand, is fine with bottled salad dressing and mayonnaise from a jar, for example. She thinks it’s kind of silly to bother making things like that from scratch.
Oh yeah, one last thing noteworthy about all this: Dad’s an utter power monger and it takes an unparalleled degree of restraint for him not to “help” Estella with dinner. When he does, he takes over. And Estella insists she can do it herself. So, sorry, this is mean of me, but when she pulls her tuna casserole out and I notice it has a topping of crunched-up potato chips on it, I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. Not at the food—damn, it’s probably the best-looking thing I’ve seen her make. No, I’m laughing because Dad hasn’t come downstairs and seen this yet.
Estella’s made tuna casserole, I text Taryn. Dad will DIE.
IF HE PASSES OUT, she texts back, I VOLUNTEER TO GIVE MOUTH-TO-MOUTH.
Yes, she thinks Dad’s hot. She thinks everyone’s hot.
Gag! I text back. Ugh. Major gag.
WHERE’S HOT WAR VET?
Here he comes now. Should I tell him you say hi?
THAT DEPENDS. IS HE COMING OR IS HE...coming?
I force myself not to imagine this. Then I text back:
Hmm... I’ll ask ;)
WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL?? she replies.
I blush and fight not to smile.
Julian wheels in while I’m still bright-faced. He’s in a Semper Fi T-shirt and cutoff sweats. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I hide the phone. “Nothing, just happened to see your face there.”
“Ha, ha. So amusing.”
Estella’s made a salad—a bagged salad with iceberg lettuce, the kind Dad has repeatedly told her he dislikes. “Are you and Dad having a fight?”
“No,” she says, plunking down ranch dressing—in a bottle—which he also can’t stand and has kind of an irrational campaign against. “Why?”
I look at Julian. This is our first Tuesday dinner together, so he has no idea what my problem is. Sorry, but this is too funny.
The thing that’s not funny at all is Estella must know where this is headed. Is it