But hey, she made moussaka, one of my favorite dishes to ever come out of her oven, and our chef, while very talented, rarely did Greek, so who was I to argue? I’d sit through some well-meaning advice if it meant I could scarf down Mom’s awesome food.
“Damn, that was good,” I said, picking up the last bits of custard and meat from my plate. It had been eons since Mom had made moussaka. In fact, the last time was the night she told me about her cancer biopsy. I frowned at that thought. The dish was labor intensive—multiple layers, each taking lots of chopping, mincing, and sautéing to execute. She hadn’t made it in years…
But she’d made it tonight. Had this somehow morphed into the “bad news” meal? Were Peter and Mom going to get a divorce or, worse, have a baby or something?
I studied her suspiciously. She kept darting nervous glances at Peter, who would look at me. And if he noticed me watching them, he’d clear his throat and ask a question or change the subject.
Adam, as usual, engaged in a love affair with his phone. Mostly it would beep at him. He’d check it and then stick it back in his pocket.
Finally, I turned to him. “Any interest in turning that off?”
He smirked at me. “Not really?”
“What if I threaten to give you a wedgie?”
“It would be amusing to see you try.”
“Turn off the phone, or when you least expect it…expect it.”
His dark brows climbed his forehead. “Resorting to threats?”
“It’s not a threat—it’s a promise.” I rubbed my hands together. “Atomic wedgie time.”
“He’s six feet tall and one and a half times your weight. How are you going to give him a wedgie?” my mom asked.
I shrugged. “I’ll figure out a way.”
Adam gave one last glance at his phone. “I’d better shut it off. I’m really scared right now.” He feigned biting his fingernails in fear as he pointedly turned off the device.
I snickered. Usually a joke or two like that was all it took to remind him that he was being irritating with his goddamn phone. I used to get madder at him, but I’d come to the conclusion long ago that most of the time, when he was in work mode, he didn’t even realize he was being rude.
That was what spouses were for, right? To when you were screwing up?
I winked at him and pointed to the last bit of moussaka on his plate with my fork. “You going to eat that?”
In a split second, he speared the morsel with his fork and popped it into his mouth. “Yep,” he said after he’d swallowed then winked right back at me.
“Balls,” I muttered.
Both Peter and Mom started laughing.
“Never going to be a dull moment at your house, that’s for sure,” Peter said after the laughter had died down.
Adam’s eyes were glowing with amusement when he looked over at me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he grinned and chucked my cheek. “Nope, the word dull can never be applied to us. That’s true.” His hand opened. and he smoothed it across my cheek.
I turned my head and kissed his palm before he dropped it. Our gazes locked with promises of more kisses later, when we were alone. If he stayed off his damn phone long enough, that was.
Whatever this server data center project was he was working on lately, I’d be damned relieved once it was over. His work stress level was ridiculous. I was going to need to work up the courage to have “the talk” with him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t start rolling his eyes and tuning me out whenever I brought up the phrase work-life balance.
“Well, since we’re all in a good mood…I need to pass something along to you, Mia.” Mom reached over to her purse on the adjacent table, pulled an envelope out, and slid it across the table to me.
It had my full name typed on it and was a legal-sized manila envelope. “Are you serving me papers, Mother? Am I about to be sued?”
Mom’s long, thin fingers tapped the surface of the dinner table nervously. “No…not suing you. I’ll save that for later when I seek a refund for all the ballet lessons I footed. They never paid off.”
“Ballet? As in a little pink tutu?” Adam said, turning to me with a huge grin.
I held up a hand to block out his commentary. “I’ll deal with you later. Now…back to the woman who birthed me.” I tapped the envelope with my finger. “What is this?”
Mom’s mouth thinned. She’d likely been hoping I’d open it straight away so she wouldn’t have to explain. She nodded to it. “It’s, uh, from Glen Dempsey.”
I ripped my hand from the envelope as if it had morphed into a poisonous scorpion.
Mom expelled a breath. “Oh, come on, Mia.”
Adam’s eyes flicked from my mother to me and back again. “Who is Glen Dempsey?”
Mom waited quietly while I sorted through a complex but brief progression of emotions—shock, dismay, surprise, anger, curiosity. About two minutes into that process, while I sat fidgeting and frowning at the envelope, Mom finally answered Adam’s question.
“Glen is Mia’s half-brother.”
Adam did not respond, but returned his gaze intently to me. When I looked up, he cocked his head at me. “I thought you didn’t know your half-siblings.”
I shook my head. “I don’t. I have no idea what this guy wants. And I don’t much care.”
Mom admitted, “It’s my fault. I, um, contacted his father.”
I was sure my face showed the shock and disgust I was feeling at the thought of what it must have taken for my mother to do that. To reach out after twenty-four years and make contact with the man who’d lied to her, used her, and then dropped her like a hot rock when she was barely more than a teenager herself.
“Why… Just, why would you do that?”
“Because you got really sick and I realized I didn’t know half of your medical history. So I asked him for medical and genetic records.”
I took a deep breath and then released it. Well, it made sense. My mom had shown a lot of initiative—and courage—to make the contact.
“So I presume this is his information?”
“Not exactly…he wouldn’t comply to my request.”
I raised my brow, unwilling to think too long or hard about that information, but aware of the vague sting at his rejection. Yet again. It didn’t matter how long ago I’d come to peace with it, it still hurt. What a piece of shit.