Arrogant Bastard(43)

Dad leads the younger kids in from the family room, and Jensen struts down the steps a moment later. I take my usual seat, twirling the stem of the iced tea glass between my thumb and forefinger.

Stiff silence fills the air. No one dares to speak.

There’s an extra chair between where my mother and father usually sit. A cool sweat glazes over me. I try to tell myself that Bellamy got me all worked up. That this could be nothing. It all might be in our heads. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if my father was going to marry one of us off, it’d be Bellamy. She’s ready. She’s smart and pretty and she can cook and sew. She’s great with kids.

I continue listing off all the reasons Bellamy would make a better wife than me, but then I remember her face in the bathroom. She doesn’t want to be married.

But neither do I.

I’m not ready.

The doorbell rings, sending my heart galloping like a runaway horse. Dad rises from the table and heads to the foyer. A second later I hear voices—both male. I watch, breath suspended, for them to emerge from around the corner.

And when they do, I know.





CHAPTER 19





Mark grins from ear to ear, his hand on the shoulder of a man with gray around his temples. The man smiles and gives a friendly wave before Mark points for him to take a seat at the head of the table next to him.

Bellamy stares at her plate. Waverly watches, still as a statue.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Mr. Waterman.” Mark seems proud of his buddy, and judging by their matching Polo sweaters, I’d say they’re two of a kind. Mark gives another quick wave, the glint of his gold wedding band catching my eye.

“Oh, you can all call me Bruce.” Mr. Waterman—Bruce—flashes a crooked smile, his two front teeth overlapping just enough to be noticeable from a safe distance. He lowers himself into his chair and proceeds to make small talk with Mark as food is passed around.

A moment later, Mark goes around the table, calling out the names of his litter of children and three wives, and tells us all Bruce is a new colleague of his at the pharmacy who just so happens to be one of the seventy quorum members of the priesthood.

Whatever the fuck that means.

Our end of the table is alarmingly silent, like someone hit the mute button and sucked all the sound from the room. Mark doesn’t notice, though. He’s too busy bragging about his perfect AUB family to his buddy, and by the end of dinner, he suggests we head into the family room for some socializing. He even tells his wives cleanup can wait.

“Waverly, why don’t you show Bruce here that lovely hymn you play on the piano.” Mark motions toward an old oak upright in the corner of the room. “You know the one. Father Is My Favorite Friend.”

“Aw, I was hoping for Take Me to Church,” I dig.

Mark’s eyes snap to me for a mere second and then dart to Waverly, who takes a seat on the bench and lifts the lid to the piano, spreading her fingers across the black and white keys. He slips his hands into his pockets and stands next to Bruce, a big smile on his face like he can hardly wait to watch Waverly’s performance vicariously through his buddy.

She’s like a monkey on a leash, performing because Mark told her to. This really is a fucking circus.

“Jensen?” Gideon comes out of nowhere and tugs on my hand. “Will you help me with my puzzle?”

A thousand-piece puzzle is scattered all over the coffee table with a few rogue pieces littering the ground beneath. It’s way above his skill level, but I’m not about to rain on his parade. Little dude’s life is already hard enough, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’ll help him with his puzzle.

“Sure thing, buddy.” We take a seat on the sofa. He tries to force random pieces together and I search for the edges, simultaneously keeping an eye on what’s going on in the far corner of the room.

I snap three edge pieces together, glancing up as the sound of some boring ass hymnal I’ve never heard before fills the confines of the crowded family room. The wives are perched on edges of furniture, still as mannequins, and the younger children play quietly.

Bellamy is seated on a big armchair to my left, away from the rest of the group. It’s almost as if she’s trying to blend in. She sits politely, her legs crossed at her ankles and her hands folded in her lap, like she’s sitting in a church pew.

“Bellamy,” Mark turns around and calls at her. “Come. You can sing while Waverly plays. Waverly, can you two do Thy Servants Are Prepared for our guest here?”

She groans just enough that I hear it and peels herself up from the chair.

Mark flashes a huge smile at her. “Bruce, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced yet to my eldest. Bruce, this is Bellamy, my firstborn daughter. She’s twenty-two.”