Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“Nice,” I casually comment.
“Her dress was,” Dad concurs, “that was not.”
“I love Sean Connery movies,” warmly informs Tanner.
“And,” Mom happily continues the conversation, “a birthday breakfast – or brunch depending on the time – with mimosas.”
“Brewskies,” Dad and I correct together.
“Adorable,” Tanner helplessly chortles.
“Get bent, Hamster Boy.”
“That’s a…name…” Dad grunts in obvious amusement.
“Not much worse than Ducky.”
Additional mirth meanders through his expression. “He calls you Ducky?”
“Why didn’t either of you call before you came?” I quirk a curious eyebrow. “Or text?”
“We did both,” Mom sassily replies. “And when you didn’t answer we thought we’d just surprise you by bringing things to you.”
“Y aún así…we were the ones surprised,” Dad cheekily adds.
There isn’t time to chirp back courtesy of my boyfriend cooing, “I didn’t know you had a birthday tradition.”
Bashfulness instantaneously replaces bitchy. “I mean…yeah. It started when I was kid. They knew parties weren’t really my thing-”
“She slew footed a juggler one year,” Dad announces prior to snickering.
Not resisting the instinct to join him results in Tanner shaking his head. “Such a fucking pest.”
“I can be.” Another round of laughs arrives between statements. “Anyways, my pretty, pretty princess DNA match would live it up at the New Year’s Eve party while the next morning, my slightly hungover parents-”
“More Amedeo than me,” Mom clarifies. “I can hold my booze.”
“I can too!” The instant we both toss him a sarcastic stare, he impishly amends, “Excepto tequila.”
“Which is understandable,” Tanner swiftly supports.
“They would always make or order us breakfast – depending on the severity of the aforementioned hangover – cuddle on the couch and watch something with me.”
“I will never admit to anyone other than those in this room that I can quote A Knight’s Tale in my sleep,” Dad announces on a two-palm surrender.
“She can do that too,” Tanner teasingly jabs a thumb in my direction.
I forgo a snarky retort to investigate an unfamiliar sight, “Is that new?”
“Yeah!” Dad excitedly explains. “You know I like to special order us something from Germany every year for your birthday, and this year, my contact picked us out a Schwarzbier or-”
“Black lager,” my boyfriend unexpectedly translates.
There’s no stopping Dad from cocking his head in curiosity. “You speak German?”
“A tad.” He fingers display a tiny wedge. “One of the benefits of lacing up with mates from all around the world is unintentionally becoming a bit multilingual.”
“I like that,” approves the man I’m usually fairly happy to see.
“And I would like to know,” my voice takes a slightly more serious tone, “what that stack of papers hiding underneath the fruit platter is.”
Guilt glides through Mom’s gaze as she quietly admits, “We thought that maybe…it would be a good time…to…discuss…your replacement surgeon options.”
“Replacement surgeon?” my boyfriend unhappily inquires. “Why do you need a replacement surgeon?” Even considering a reply isn’t an option. “And why am I unaware?”
“Can we talk about this shit post food?” I unwind my arms and tuck the edges of his long sleeves into my palm. “Pretty sure I see stuff for a pancake showdown and the last thing I need is you throwing off my style.”
“My apologies,” escapes him in a confused state. “What?”
“Oh, they have a whole All Star competition thing anytime pancakes are to be made,” Mom casually explains as Dad collects the ingredients. “Who can flip them the highest-”
“Me,” is attached to a cocky finger point inward.
“Who has the best showmanship-”
“Again me,” hits their ears during my backing up towards the island where he’s unloading items.
“Who can fit the most silver dollars in their mouth-”
“I will be crowned king of that one,” Tanner declares and makes his way over to us.
“Don’t count your pollos before they’ve hatched, novato,” Dad warns on a slam down of the pancake box mix. “That’s the one competition I always win.”
“Perhaps in the past when you did not have an adequate adversary,” my favorite player cockily declares while retrieving proper cookware.
“Fuck you,” juvenilely springs free.
“Not twice in front of us,” Mom playfully pokes.
“Mom!”
Loud laughs escape them all along with a tiny golf clap from Dad.
I love my parents.
I really do.
They don’t shy away from inappropriate jokes or topics or comments.
Sex isn’t a taboo subject.
It wasn’t even that when I was a teen.
Everything has always been open and honest and candid, which isn’t what most people expect especially from their parents; however, they were adamant about having things that way.
No, I didn’t call them for tips, but I wasn’t scared to ask about birth control.
Or condoms.
Or signs of an STI – that I knew my sister had.
Our open conversation also helped me be secure enough in a part of myself to understand I didn’t have to be ashamed of what I like and dislike or who or what I may be into unlike so many other people I’ve met.
People we were raised around.
I guess they didn’t want us to end up like their acquaintance’s children, and they didn’t wanna end up like those parents.