Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
And no, I don’t want to rip her pretty hair out. At all.
“If that guy isn’t your boyfriend, why do you look so jealous?” Mom asks pointedly.
“I do not. I’m just surprised, is all. When he said he was bringing his CTO, I imagined a dorky dude, not a fashion model.”
And that surprise is definitely what’s responsible for the bizarre tightness in my chest.
“Isn’t that sexist?” Dad asks.
“Sure is,” Mom replies. “But in Kendall’s defense, women can get very catty when jealous.”
How is that a defense? And… isn’t that even more sexist than what I said?
“Hi,” Ashton says as he and the model reach our table.
I leap to my feet and do my best to act like a normal human being. “Ashton, meet Mom, Dad, and my brother, Cameron.”
“Hello, Kendall’s dad.” Ashton shakes Dad’s hand. “And mom.” He kisses her on the cheek—and she looks like her menopause has unpaused.
“Happy birthday, Cameron.” He shakes my brother’s hand and hands him a wrapped box.
“Thanks.” My brother sets his gift on a nearby table and then nods at the model. “Will you introduce us to your… plus one?”
“Ah. Right,” Ashton says. “This is my CTO, Jordan.”
“Hi, all,” Jordan says and bats her lashes at everyone prettily. “I’m also this knucklehead’s sister—in case you’re wondering about the resemblance.”
I’m so relieved I drop into my seat, and to my chagrin, my family members all sneak knowing looks at me.
“I can see the resemblance now that I know to look for it,” I say, and it’s true. And—maybe relatedly—I suddenly like Jordan, a lot, and not just because of the teasing way she handles Ashton.
It’s something about the intelligence in her eyes. Or her smile. Which, come to think of it, is a lot like her brother’s.
“I don’t see any resemblance,” Cameron says. “I think you both look unique.”
Uh-oh. I take out my phone and write a quick text to my brother:
Don’t even think about it. Henceforth, Jordan is officially covered by the pact.
Hearing his phone ding, Cameron sneaks a glance and looks very disappointed by my proclamation—which means it was necessary.
A waiter stops by and asks if we’re ready to order.
“Give us a minute,” Dad tells him.
Everyone studies their respective menus. Even on the so-called basic menu, the most palatable item I can find is haggis—a Scottish dish usually made from sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs, which are mixed with oats and spices before getting cooked in the sheep’s stomach. Apparently, the ban on importing this item was recently lifted, and thus it’s on the menu here.
Ashton, who seems to be holding the adventurous menu, orders tacos with escamoles. I don’t ask him to explain what that is.
Mom chooses a dish that features a century egg, and Dad gets an ominous-sounding black pudding. Both are on the basic menu, so I happen to know one is an egg that’s been preserved to the point where the yolk has become green and the whites brown, and the other is—as the name hints at—blood mixed with oats.
“Is the kiviak imported or made locally?” Jordan asks and receives an approving look from my brother.
“Imported,” the waiter says. “The chef has a relationship with the Inughuit.”
“I’ll have that,” Jordan says.
“And I’ll have the hákarl,” my brother says.
The waiter leaves, and everyone discusses what their choice entails, though I kind of wish that they wouldn’t. Kiviak turns out to be a bunch of small birds that have been fermented inside a seal carcass—because, of course—and hákarl is also a fermented treat, in this case shark meat that has been buried in gravelly sand and then hung to dry for several months. Oh, and the fun doesn’t end there.
Escamoles is ant larvae.
“So, Ashton,” Dad says when the excitement about our dishes subsides. “How did you and our daughter meet?”
“At the gym,” he says. “I tried to train her, but she wasn’t having it.”
Every traitor from my family nods.
“Even when she was a baby, she didn’t like to follow instructions,” Mom says.
“Teaching her to ride a bike was the most trying time of my life,” Dad says solemnly. “That and taking her to the dentist for the first time.”
“At least you didn’t try to teach her to play chess,” my brother chimes in. “That was actual torture.”
“Enough.” I narrow my eyes at each of them. “We’re changing the topic.”
“What about you two?” Ashton asks my parents. “How did you meet?”
Oh, boy. I’ve never seen a worse case of “be careful what you wish for.”
“You could say she was also a client of mine,” Dad says with a grin.
Ashton arches an eyebrow while my brother and I exchange a “is this happening again?” look.
“My husband is a proctologist,” Mom says gleefully.
Dad nods. “It’s true. I had to study a long time to deal with assholes for a living.”
Yep. Just like every other time this comes up.