birthday cake was a battle of wills. I gave Bridget instructions, and she ignored them. “You’re cooking it wrong,” she insisted.
“Be quiet and stir.”
Despite the drama, the cake tin was finally loaded into the oven and clean-up began. Bridget lost interest at that point and went back to her box of severed doll parts. Charli remained sprawled on the couch as if she owned the joint, and the ensuing conversation led me to think she sometimes wished she did.
“Ryan, I think you and I should make a deal,” she suggested, staring at the high ceiling.
“What kind of deal?”
“A business deal.”
She might not have seen me roll my eyes, but I was sure she heard me laugh. “I’ve made enough business deals with you to last me a lifetime.”
Ignoring me, she continued her pitch. “I think you should move into our apartment so we can move in here.”
“I’m sure you do,” I replied, still chuckling. “Find your own house.”
“Adam owns half this place, right?”
“Technically.”
“Then technically I own half too. I’m evicting you.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that, Tinker Bell.”
She sat upright, trying her best to appear serious. “You’re becoming very unreasonable in your old age.”
Bridget chimed in from across the room. “Are you old now, Ry?”
No one on earth got away with shortening my name – except her. She wasn’t going to get away with calling me old, though. “No, Bridget. I am not.”
Charli giggled. “Did you know that my dad was only eleven when you were born?”
“Charli, Alex wasn’t much older than that when you were born.”
She had no smart comeback. I wasn’t lying.
***
My clean-up efforts were in vain. Once the cake was cooked and cooled, Bridget went to town decorating it. There was more frosting on the counter than the cake, but she was thrilled with the result, which made it easy to overlook the mess she’d made.
“Great job, little one,” I praised.
“We can eat it now?” she asked hopefully.
I looked to Charli for an answer.
“No,” she told her. “We’re taking it to Mamie’s tonight.”
My mother had been planning my birthday dinner for days. Supplying dessert was tactical. It meant we didn’t have to fear the marzipan topped pound cake she usually subjected us to. For some reason, she considered it to be one of her signature dishes, and to this day, not one of us had had the heart to tell her how truly revolting it was.
4. THE WASP’S NEST
Bente
No one thought my sister could top the ridiculous name she’d cursed her eldest daughter, Fabergé, with, but four years later she outdid herself by naming her second daughter Malibu.
Malibu Vienna Denison to be precise. With a name like that, she was bound to have attitude. Malibu was a growly, bad-tempered bundle of terror, but in the eyes of her mother she could do no wrong. In fairness, turning a blind eye is probably necessary when it comes to raising two precocious girls by yourself.
No one really knew how Ivy ended up a solo parent. Both girls seemed to be immaculate conceptions. One minute my sister was single. The next she was pregnant and single.
I’d never asked about their fathers. I didn’t even know for sure that there were two daddies; it was just an educated guess based on the fact that Malibu and Fabergé looked nothing alike. Fabergé was olive skinned with dark hair like her mother. Malibu had red curly hair and very pale skin.
“It’s the Irish in her,” declared Ivy.
I offered no input. I had no idea what the little girl had in her.
***
Living with Ivy and her girls was akin to serving out a prison sentence, and now that I was unemployed my plan of moving into my own place was nothing more than a pipe dream.
I was doing my time in Fabergé’s room while she bunked with Malibu. Neither girl was happy with the arrangement. When Fabergé started moving her things across the hall, World War Three broke out. It started out with pinching and slapping and
“Be quiet and stir.”
Despite the drama, the cake tin was finally loaded into the oven and clean-up began. Bridget lost interest at that point and went back to her box of severed doll parts. Charli remained sprawled on the couch as if she owned the joint, and the ensuing conversation led me to think she sometimes wished she did.
“Ryan, I think you and I should make a deal,” she suggested, staring at the high ceiling.
“What kind of deal?”
“A business deal.”
She might not have seen me roll my eyes, but I was sure she heard me laugh. “I’ve made enough business deals with you to last me a lifetime.”
Ignoring me, she continued her pitch. “I think you should move into our apartment so we can move in here.”
“I’m sure you do,” I replied, still chuckling. “Find your own house.”
“Adam owns half this place, right?”
“Technically.”
“Then technically I own half too. I’m evicting you.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that, Tinker Bell.”
She sat upright, trying her best to appear serious. “You’re becoming very unreasonable in your old age.”
Bridget chimed in from across the room. “Are you old now, Ry?”
No one on earth got away with shortening my name – except her. She wasn’t going to get away with calling me old, though. “No, Bridget. I am not.”
Charli giggled. “Did you know that my dad was only eleven when you were born?”
“Charli, Alex wasn’t much older than that when you were born.”
She had no smart comeback. I wasn’t lying.
***
My clean-up efforts were in vain. Once the cake was cooked and cooled, Bridget went to town decorating it. There was more frosting on the counter than the cake, but she was thrilled with the result, which made it easy to overlook the mess she’d made.
“Great job, little one,” I praised.
“We can eat it now?” she asked hopefully.
I looked to Charli for an answer.
“No,” she told her. “We’re taking it to Mamie’s tonight.”
My mother had been planning my birthday dinner for days. Supplying dessert was tactical. It meant we didn’t have to fear the marzipan topped pound cake she usually subjected us to. For some reason, she considered it to be one of her signature dishes, and to this day, not one of us had had the heart to tell her how truly revolting it was.
4. THE WASP’S NEST
Bente
No one thought my sister could top the ridiculous name she’d cursed her eldest daughter, Fabergé, with, but four years later she outdid herself by naming her second daughter Malibu.
Malibu Vienna Denison to be precise. With a name like that, she was bound to have attitude. Malibu was a growly, bad-tempered bundle of terror, but in the eyes of her mother she could do no wrong. In fairness, turning a blind eye is probably necessary when it comes to raising two precocious girls by yourself.
No one really knew how Ivy ended up a solo parent. Both girls seemed to be immaculate conceptions. One minute my sister was single. The next she was pregnant and single.
I’d never asked about their fathers. I didn’t even know for sure that there were two daddies; it was just an educated guess based on the fact that Malibu and Fabergé looked nothing alike. Fabergé was olive skinned with dark hair like her mother. Malibu had red curly hair and very pale skin.
“It’s the Irish in her,” declared Ivy.
I offered no input. I had no idea what the little girl had in her.
***
Living with Ivy and her girls was akin to serving out a prison sentence, and now that I was unemployed my plan of moving into my own place was nothing more than a pipe dream.
I was doing my time in Fabergé’s room while she bunked with Malibu. Neither girl was happy with the arrangement. When Fabergé started moving her things across the hall, World War Three broke out. It started out with pinching and slapping and
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