her fish. "Why would anyone make a movie about that?"
My dad sighs. "It's not a true story, Bea. Just a horror movie. You don't have to act so shocked."
"It's a comedy, actually," Dean puts in.
I kick his shin under the table. Not hard, but enough to make a point.
"What's so funny about killing people?" My mom knits her eyebrows, shaking her head at me. "I swear, I never understood your sense of humor."
"Anyway, the joke is that Felicity has no idea what I do," Dean says, patting my hand. "Just that I'm in 'business.' And really, that's good enough. The details are boring. I don't even like talking about it."
"Oh, busy businessman!" My mom's already gone through most of the bottle of wine, and she hasn't even started on her entrée yet. Probably because it's slightly more exotic than unflavored oatmeal, and she hasn't quite decided what to make of it. "Good for you. Felicity was always so artsy, I figured she'd end up with somebody like her."
Artsy. It's her nice way of saying scatterbrained. Which is true, fair enough - I spent about twenty minutes looking for a matching pair of earrings this morning before I gave up and went without. But that doesn't make me any less of a functional human being, most of the time. I'm not sure why my mother thinks it would be more virtuous to fight my space-cadet nature and go into some field with lots of math, where I'd probably end up accidentally killing people - but it was a major point of contention in my childhood. She wasn't too happy about my brothers going into mechanical trades, but at least it was something practical.
Thankfully, my oldest sister took the pressure off all of us by showing the proper amount of interest in medicine from a young age. While I drew epic cartoon stories and my brothers tried to take apart the lawn mower, my sister played "hospital" with all her dolls lined up in makeshift toilet paper bandages. Predictably, she loved biology in high school, and before long she was accepted into a prestigious medical school and well on her way to the only career path my parents truly understand.
For me, "become a doctor" was only a slightly less realistic goal than "build a homestead on Mars." I was simply missing whatever gene Tabby has, the one that's gratified by studying diseases and muscle groups and the names of all the tiny bones in your ear.
I love my family. I do. But after a lifetime of being the inexplicable middle child, the one my parents always mentioned last when they caught up with friends and extended family - "oh, Felicity, she's just...she's still showing a lot of interest in telling stories, so we're hoping she'll take up journalism or technical writing, you know? But the most important thing is that she's happy..."
I'm just over it.
They're proud of me, of course. But I still always feel like I'm on the other side of the glass at the zoo, and while they gawk and appreciate, they'll never understand.
"It's so romantic, the story of how you two got together," my mother says, a little dreamily. When my father gives her a sharp look, she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't bring up anything embarrassing. I skimmed over those parts anyway."
"It's not all based on fact," I point out, suddenly feeling a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. I've managed to avoid thinking about my mother reading sex scenes I wrote, but the look on her face tells me that she might not be completely truthful about the "skimming" thing.
"Stop it," my dad mutters. "You're embarrassing her."
It's tempting to face-plant into my lasagna, but somehow, I resist the urge.
CHAPTER THREE
Master
We're finally home, after the longest two hours of my life.
By which I mean, of course, that I'm home. I didn't even live here when I was with Dean, but it's all too easy to fall into old mindsets all the same.
"I don't think I can handle another dinner with your mom wondering if my penis is shaped like the guy in the book," he mutters, raking his hands
My dad sighs. "It's not a true story, Bea. Just a horror movie. You don't have to act so shocked."
"It's a comedy, actually," Dean puts in.
I kick his shin under the table. Not hard, but enough to make a point.
"What's so funny about killing people?" My mom knits her eyebrows, shaking her head at me. "I swear, I never understood your sense of humor."
"Anyway, the joke is that Felicity has no idea what I do," Dean says, patting my hand. "Just that I'm in 'business.' And really, that's good enough. The details are boring. I don't even like talking about it."
"Oh, busy businessman!" My mom's already gone through most of the bottle of wine, and she hasn't even started on her entrée yet. Probably because it's slightly more exotic than unflavored oatmeal, and she hasn't quite decided what to make of it. "Good for you. Felicity was always so artsy, I figured she'd end up with somebody like her."
Artsy. It's her nice way of saying scatterbrained. Which is true, fair enough - I spent about twenty minutes looking for a matching pair of earrings this morning before I gave up and went without. But that doesn't make me any less of a functional human being, most of the time. I'm not sure why my mother thinks it would be more virtuous to fight my space-cadet nature and go into some field with lots of math, where I'd probably end up accidentally killing people - but it was a major point of contention in my childhood. She wasn't too happy about my brothers going into mechanical trades, but at least it was something practical.
Thankfully, my oldest sister took the pressure off all of us by showing the proper amount of interest in medicine from a young age. While I drew epic cartoon stories and my brothers tried to take apart the lawn mower, my sister played "hospital" with all her dolls lined up in makeshift toilet paper bandages. Predictably, she loved biology in high school, and before long she was accepted into a prestigious medical school and well on her way to the only career path my parents truly understand.
For me, "become a doctor" was only a slightly less realistic goal than "build a homestead on Mars." I was simply missing whatever gene Tabby has, the one that's gratified by studying diseases and muscle groups and the names of all the tiny bones in your ear.
I love my family. I do. But after a lifetime of being the inexplicable middle child, the one my parents always mentioned last when they caught up with friends and extended family - "oh, Felicity, she's just...she's still showing a lot of interest in telling stories, so we're hoping she'll take up journalism or technical writing, you know? But the most important thing is that she's happy..."
I'm just over it.
They're proud of me, of course. But I still always feel like I'm on the other side of the glass at the zoo, and while they gawk and appreciate, they'll never understand.
"It's so romantic, the story of how you two got together," my mother says, a little dreamily. When my father gives her a sharp look, she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't bring up anything embarrassing. I skimmed over those parts anyway."
"It's not all based on fact," I point out, suddenly feeling a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. I've managed to avoid thinking about my mother reading sex scenes I wrote, but the look on her face tells me that she might not be completely truthful about the "skimming" thing.
"Stop it," my dad mutters. "You're embarrassing her."
It's tempting to face-plant into my lasagna, but somehow, I resist the urge.
CHAPTER THREE
Master
We're finally home, after the longest two hours of my life.
By which I mean, of course, that I'm home. I didn't even live here when I was with Dean, but it's all too easy to fall into old mindsets all the same.
"I don't think I can handle another dinner with your mom wondering if my penis is shaped like the guy in the book," he mutters, raking his hands
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