This is not the conversation I want to have with Gabriel and his bat-power hearing in close proximity, not to mention his eyes are on me in clear amusement. But I can’t exactly say that. “Of course they’re nice to me. I wouldn’t stay if they weren’t.”
Not exactly true. I’ve had some shit jobs with even shittier bosses over the years, but I’m turning over a new leaf: accept nothing but what brings me joy from now on.
“And I love it, Ma. Truly.”
“Well, that’s good. And those band boys?” Her voice dips. “Are they as sexy as they look on TV?”
I told her what I was doing via text. But I hadn’t expected her to know about Kill John. I make a gagging noise into the phone. “Seriously? You’re trying to scar me for life, aren’t you? You do not need to be asking about sexy rockers.”
At my side, Gabriel snorts and takes a bite of my sandwich. I snatch it back, giving him a side glare as my mom keeps talking.
“Please,” she drawls. “If I didn’t like sex, you’d have never been—”
“La, la, la… Not hearing you!”
Gabriel chuckles, so low only I can hear it. But it does illicit things to me, sending tingles where I don’t need them.
“Born!” Mom finishes emphatically.
“Mom.”
“Don’t whine, Sophie. It’s unflattering.”
A click sounds, and my father’s voice filters in. “My baby girl doesn’t whine.”
“See? Daddy knows,” I put in, grinning. It’s an old game I play with them, and I don’t care if I’m twenty-five; it feels good to act like a kid. Safe and secure.
Here I am, sitting on a stage, about to go on a European tour with the world’s biggest band. But for a few minutes, I can just be Sophie Darling, only daughter of Jack and Margaret Darling.
“You spoil her, Jack,” my mother is saying. “I have to counteract the ill effects with doses of hard realism.”
I am essentially my mother—only younger and with ever-changing hair color. I have to cut my parents off before they can get going. Their back and forth can go on forever, and I have a hot, nosy, sort-of boss to eat lunch with—something that suddenly fills me with bright anticipation.
“Look, my lunch break is about to end. Let me call you tonight when we stop for the day.”
“All right, honey,” my dad says. “Just remember, men love women who play hard to get. Extremely hard to get.”
I don’t need to look over to know Gabriel is rolling his eyes.
“And yet you and Mom started as a one-night stand…”
“Damn it, Margaret. You tell this child too much.”
Still laughing, we say our goodbyes, and as soon as I hang up, Gabriel speaks again. “And now your slightly unhinged verbal onslaughts become clear.”
“Eavesdropping is rude, you know…”
“I would have had to cover my ears to avoid overhearing that ruckus.” His gaze slides over me with clear amusement. “They talk as loudly as you do.”
“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“Details.”
I smile, despite myself, and give his shoulder a nudge with my own. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.
Gabriel takes my sandwich again, and because I’m feeling generous, I leave him to it and take the other half instead. He finishes his side in two neat bites, then wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“Your parents are lovely, chatty girl.”
Warmth floods my chest. “Thank you. I miss them.”
He nods in empathy. “Do you not see them often? You talked before of living off ramen…”
“I love my parents,” I cut in. “And I see them when I can. But there’s also only so much I can take. They’re…slightly suffocating in their attempts to watch out for me.”
I lift my phone and scroll through pictures until I find the one I want. It’s an older one of me, smiling wide and pained as I sit between my parents on a couch. I hand it to Gabriel.
He studies the picture for a long moment. “You look a bit like both of them.”
“Yes.” I know this well. I have my mom’s dark brown eyes, cheeky smile, and pert nose. I have my dad’s bone structure and wavy, dark blond hair. I look down at Mom, her caramel colored hair stick straight. I’ve always wanted her hair too. “This picture is of me at my college graduation party.”
He quirks a brow, waiting for me to explain further.
I shake my head, my lips pursing. “It was a kegger. They were the only parents there.”
A short, shocked laugh bursts from him before he swallows it. “That explains your knickers-in-a-twist expression.”
“Ha. That expression was me plotting their untimely and slowly torturous deaths.”
He makes a noise of amusement.
“They’ve always been like that—really, really involved. Mom’s half Filipino, half Norwegian American. She used to bring me care packages: big trays of lumpia and lox.”
“Lumpia?”
“Filipino spring rolls, basically. Which are delicious. Paring them with lox? Not so much.” I make a face. “And then there’s Dad. This big, goofy, half Scottish American, half Armenian sociology professor. He used to tease me, calling me a UN baby while explaining the intricate paths of my heritage to bored friends.” I sigh. “So, they’re best taken in small doses.”