and cucumber bites. This time, Mad took a chance on most of the dishes. It was Clementine who sat in horror in front of her plate, her big green eyes staring at the heap of dead sea creatures.
“Jesus Christ, Julian, just give her some Cheerios,” Amber finally snapped, when it was obvious she couldn’t continue telling Katie her story of how she’d been mistaken for Kate Hudson at Saks Fifth Avenue.
“But I don’t want Cheerios.” Clementine pouted, her brows diving down. “I’m tired of eating them all the time. I want Grandma’s pancakes.”
“Grandma doesn’t have that special grandma mix.” Mom dropped her utensils on her plate, her eyes softening. Clementine spent a good amount of time at my parents’ house, and Mom braved the kitchen to treat her granddaughter to the one thing she made by herself and didn’t ask the cook to fix—instant mix pancakes.
It was my understanding that Amber and Julian’s relationship was an endless string of arguments, with Julian getting kicked out of the house frequently and Amber crying herself to sleep on a weekly basis. My parents tried to shield Booger Face from this reality as much as they could.
Madison watched the exchange with thinly masked alert. I could see the wheels in her brain turning. She didn’t want to overstep, but she didn’t like Amber’s treatment of Booger Face. I didn’t think anyone did. That kid lived off cereal, Pop-Tarts, and air.
“What mix do you usually use?” Madison turned to my mother, placing a hand on her wrist. “For the pancakes?”
“Quick Wheat.”
“Okay, so flour, sugar, eggs, water, milk, and salt. Hershey’s Kisses if you have them too. Where’s your pantry?” She turned to Amber, her eyes daring her host to refuse. Yet again, I found myself hard. Was there anything Madison did that didn’t give me a raging erection? I tried to think. I hadn’t been hard when she’d assaulted the banana bread publicly. Although, if I was being honest, she’d still looked fuckable. Tie-able, too, though.
Amber smiled politely. “She can eat what everyone else is eating. In our household, everyone is having the same dish or no food at all. It’s a parent thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
Right under the belt. I looked over at Madison, who kept her smile fresh and sweet.
I agreed with Amber’s sentiment, but this was a pile of bullshit in Clementine’s case. Booger Face never had what everyone else was having. Amber simply wanted to punish Clementine for warming up to Madison. Only Clementine wasn’t privy to that.
“Isn’t she sensitive to shellfish?” Dad frowned at Julian. Julian turned his gaze helplessly to his wife. Jesus Christ. Katie dragged Clementine’s plate away from her. “Mildly allergic. It gives her a rash.”
“The doctor said she will develop immunity if she eats shellfish regularly.” Amber blushed under her makeup. I almost pitied her. She wasn’t a neglectful mother, but she had the maternal instincts of a bag of Cheetos. Booger Face had private tutors, and Amber took her to ballet lessons and taught her how to swim, ride a bike, and do cartwheels. She even took her to French lessons. Julian’s involvement in his kid’s life, however, was minimal and limited to patting her head like she was a Labrador every evening when he came back home. I had a theory that Amber had lost her soul the day she’d chosen Julian Black for a husband. Of course, being the president of the I Loathe Julian hate club for the past three years, I was a little biased. At any rate, I had a feeling I could recruit Mad as our newest member, judging by her interaction with the couple.
“Shouldn’t she start with small quantities?” Katie turned to Amber.
“I’m hun-grayyyyyy,” Clementine whined, throwing her head back.
“Really, it’ll be no trouble at all. It will take me ten minutes,” Madison began to explain in the cacophony of voices that spoke over one another.
“Just let her have pancakes!” my father boomed all of a sudden, slamming his fist on the table. The room fell quiet. Madison sprang into action, scurrying to the kitchen.
I turned my attention back to my food.
“Aren’t you going to accompany your fiancée?” Julian sat back, starting a new shitstorm.
I shrugged. “She can find her way around your kitchen.”
“Can you find your way to the twenty-first century, though? That’s quite chauvinistic.”
I fought an eye roll. “Since when is it chauvinistic to insinuate that my girlfriend can make her own food?