A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,30

we’re waiting for her to tell it.”

Henry drops his foot and his grin goes from maniacal to shit-eating.

He knows.

Figures. My charming baby brother is an undisputed expert in knowing how to cozy up to anybody and get any information he wants. He’s been that way since he was a tiny kid. For all I know, he’s probably a triple agent working for three superpowers, disguised as baby-faced Henry Murphy, all American kid.

“Great. Sounds great, Pai. Don’t let me stop you.” He grabs a crepe from my plate.

Under any normal circumstances, I would have attempted murder with my fork, but Paisley has thrown us all off kilter.

Dad stomps in at that second. He looks around, growls in my direction, and snaps, “Has anyone seen my cigars? The good ones I kept in the box in the back?”

Based on Henry’s carefully conducted stretching routine and strategically innocent face, I’d be willing to put a sizable wager on the fact that my brother swiped Dad’s cigars and probably made a small fortune off of them on eBay.

When no one answers, my father looks Paisley over and his face wrinkles suspiciously. “What’s going on, pumpkin pie? Why do you look so damn serious?”

“Well...” My sister pulls a long piece of red hair and chews on the ends a little while my mother gasps. It took her three years to break Paisley of that habit. My sister drops her hair and looks around nervously. “Um, I kind of planned to tell you all at dinner.” She laughs weakly. “When Calvin was here with me and we could explain—”

“If that little prick got you pregnant, I will squeeze the life out of his body with my bare hands!” Dad roars.

Henry snickers, obviously enjoying the show, my mother goes pale and grabs onto the back of the ugly yellow kitchen chair, and Paisley shakes her head frantically.

“No! Daddy, no, nothing like that. I’m not pregnant.” In the pause before her next words, everyone but Henry, who already knows whatever Pai’s real news is, lets out a huge sigh of total relief. “But it is about Calvin—”

“Don’t tell me you’re marrying that douche-hole,” I groan.

“Landry, watch your mouth!” my mother cries, but she’s mostly on autopilot, waiting with bated breath for Paisley to just come out with it, whatever the hell it is.

“Dad just called him a prick,” I point out and level my father an understanding look. He crosses his arms and calls a silent truce. For this moment, on the matter of Paisley’s slimy tool of a boyfriend, my father and I stand in solidarity.

“This is your father’s house,” my mother reminds me. Like I need reminding. She glances at my dad and adds, “And you watch your mouth, too, Tommy. No wonder Landry speaks the way he does.”

My dad stands a little taller, like the fact that he passed the unique ability to call a douchebag a douchebag on to me makes him proud. Which crumbles a little more of the hate wall we’re on either side of.

“I’m not getting married,” Paisley mumbles, but this declaration is less emphatic than the last one.

It’s not that I think she’s lying, necessarily.

I just think she might be waiting for old Cal to put a ring on it.

Well, a shiny engagement ring. To replace the lame promise ring that means they can make sheep eyes at each other until we all wanna puke, but they aren’t getting it on. Which is actually a really good thing.

My vomit threshold is really low when it comes to Calvin.

We all wait, arms crossed, faces a mix of gleeful triumph, breathless anticipation, and total confusion with a pinch of disgust.

“Just tell us already, Paisley!” Mom almost shrieks.

“Okay!” Paisley bites her lips, hops from one foot to the other, closes her eyes and says in a mad rush, “I’ve been called. I’ve been chosen. The Lord has blessed me with a clear path and a clear heart and a clear mind.”

My mother puts a hand to her mouth to suffocate the horror, I think.

“Oh, Paisley. Are you sure you want to do the convent thing? Remember how hard it was on Aunt Maryellen? She didn’t get over that for a long time. She always regretted being a nun while she had a good figure. She couldn’t catch a man when she finally left, and that ate at her.”

“Maryellen looked like a stuffed sausage all the time I knew her,” Dad scoffs. “And she couldn’t catch a man because she had the disposition of