He then leaned in, kissed me quick and hard on my lips, grinned at me and walked out my front door. I stood there in shock, completely dumfounded by the fact that he’d just walked out. I snapped, stomping my foot and shrieking in the back of my throat, and then I threw my phone into the couch. Hard. Oh, shit! My phone bounced off the back of the couch and flew back at me. I threw my hands up, more in defense than anything, but also trying to catch it before it could hit something and shatter. Luckily it thumped into my chest (Ouch!) and I was able to save it.
Shaking my head at myself and my own stupidity (If my phone would have shattered, it would have been the fourth one this year. What? I have a temper. So sue me.) I stomped to the door to lock it before stalking down the hall to my room, where I fell into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 8
My phone woke me up the next morning, ringing in the vicinity of my head. I lifted my head groggily, trying to locate it but couldn’t see it. I shoved my hand under my pillow, searching blindly until I hit it with my fingers. I pulled it out to answer, but it quit ringing before I could get my fingers to work enough to slide across the touch screen to unlock my phone. I checked the display, noting that I had missed my mom’s call before my eyes hit my alarm clock. Fuck me, I’m late!
I scrambled out of bed and set a new world record in the shower before throwing on an old pair of jeans and a tshirt, and pulling on my brother’s hoodie as I slid my feet into my sneakers. I didn’t bother tying them, just ran down the hall to grab my purse and my keys. Then I had to run back to my bedroom to get my phone, which had fallen to the bed in my mad dash to get ready.
I pulled up at my parents’ house about half an hour late and headed inside. Since I was so late, everyone was already there and seated at the table, plates heaping with food. I breezed in and slid into my seat, reaching for the plate of bacon as everyone’s eyes settled on me.
“Good morning!” I said, filling my plate. At least once a month my family all got together for Sunday breakfast. Mom pulled out all the stops, making everyone’s favorite foods. We had gravy, made from the sausage and bacon drippings with pieces of sausage and bacon crumbled in it, biscuits, scrambled eggs (with cheese for me, yum!), sausage patties, strips of bacon, shredded hash browns, popovers, sausage links, and French toast.
My mom got up and poured me a glass of orange, strawberry, banana juice and brought it to me, kissing the top of my head and saying, “Good morning, o tardy one!”
I grinned at her, thanking her for the juice before saying hi to my dad. He grunted, which meant hi back. He’s lucky I am fluent in Dad Speak or we’d never have a conversation. I waved to my sisters, winked at my niece and nephew, nodded to Noah, and stuck my tongue out at Calland. I still hadn’t forgiven him for dumping Drunk Leah on my carpet while I was getting’ my Luke on that night.
My sisters both waved back at me, although Jenna gave me her we-need-to-talk face, Hayden laughed and tried to wink back, succeeding only in blinking her eyes owlishly, Jarrod grinned, Noah nodded back, and Calland, calmly as you please, reached across the table and stole my plate.
“Hey!” I cried. “Mo-om, Calland stole my plate,” I whined. Yes, I know I was acting like a four year old, but hey. That was my food!
Mom just grinned and shook her head. I think she’s used to us by now. Her and Dad have always been fans of the whole ‘work it out for yourselves’ type of conflict resolution, going as far as to pushing the furniture back in the living room to clear a space before letting us loose on each other. We never really fought, though. It was more wrestling around, trying to best the other by whatever means necessary, whether it be slapping, tickling, punching, sitting on top of, pinching, and biting. Biting was generally frowned upon, but was allowable as long as we weren’t doing it to maim or draw blood.
All of this usually ended with one of us (me or my sisters) pissed off, screaming, crying, and stomping into our rooms to slam the door, and Calland laughing hysterically. Asshole.
I got up from the table, went around to where Calland was sitting, and tried to take my plate back. He pulled it away from me, trying to stab my hand with his fork.