I knew it was coming. I felt it.
Don’t ask. Don’t.
“And your father?” Roy pressed.
Called it.
Guinevere put her fork down. “Guys, we just got back. Can you save the questions for another time—”
“It’s fine. My father was also a neurosurgeon. He died of a heart attack when I was eleven. I was there with my mother and younger brother when it happened.” I looked to her father, who had yet to say anything, but whom I could feel watching me. “So, sir, I truly hope you are taking much better care of yourself. The last thing I want is for Guinevere to feel like she was cheated out of time with her father.”
Just like I knew it would, the dinner table became silent; it was why I hadn’t wanted them to ask—I knew it would just make them feel awkward.
“Okay.” Jeremy cracked his neck side to side. “Lightning round. You ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“How old are you?” Malik asked, not answering me.
“31.”
“Born on?”
“June 23rd.”
“Where do you live?”
“Right next door to Guinevere.”
They all looked to Masoa, then Guinevere, and back to me.
“He lived there first, and I moved in next door,” Guinevere replied. “No, I didn’t know.”
Roy picked the questions. “Where did you grow up?”
“Townhouse on East 63rd Street in New York.”
“This your first time ever leaving the city?”
“No. I’ve traveled, but mostly to other cities.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Eventually.”
This time, they looked to Guinevere, who quietly finished off her salmon. Finally, she gave up and glared at them before turning to me. “I’m not a kids person,” she replied.
I found that hard to believe. “You love kids. You spent most of your time visiting them in the hospital.”
“Oh, I love them, but in expected, limited doses. Plus, I can always just give them back to their parents,” she replied.
“She wants her mother to die of a broken heart is what she is really saying,” her mother replied, frowning at her.
Guinevere sighed. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve gone from a hard no to a maybe.”
The boys looked at me.
“Are you out of questions?” I asked.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Malik asked as seriously as he could.
“Guys, really?” Guinevere frowned.
“I have to agree, that was a weak one.” Her mother laughed.
“Ocean's Eleven.”
“Me too.” Guinevere smiled.
“Wait!” Roy raised his hand. “Which version, 1960 or 2001?”
“2001.” I hadn’t even known there was an earlier one.
All of them—including Guinevere—groaned.
Her mom shook her head.
“He can’t be perfect.” Guinevere tried to defend me, but ended up frowning. “Really? Clooney over Sinatra?”
“I really didn’t know there was an earlier one,” I said to her, causing a few sighs.
Malik grinned. “No one thinks it’s a weak question now, huh?”
“Did you know Eli owns a Black 1965 Aston Martin DB5 Vantage Convertible?” Guinevere asked, trying to save me.
All the guys looked to her.
“No way.”
“I took a picture.” She sang happily and tried to get her cell phone.
“No phones at the dinner table,” her mother said.
“It’s a 1965 Aston Martin,” Malik said to the older woman.
“Mrs. Poe, it’s James Bond’s car,” Jeremy added.
“No phones at my dinner table,” she repeated sternly.
“Yes, Ma’am,” they both said.
I chuckeled.
For the most part, Guinevere kept them entertained with her stories from the city, everything from randomly dancing on subway platforms to local musicians, the mural she had painted, and even her failed attempt to run. I noticed she spoke with her hands when she told her stories, as if she was trying to paint a picture in the air. Every once in a while, she would shift her hair to the side, shoot me a small smile, and then focus back on the men around her. When she stood up to clear the plates with her mother, so did I, taking them from her.
“It’s fine, I got it. Finish your story,” I said, following her mother.
“I’ll admit it, City Slicker is pretty smooth.” Malik whistled.
“Keep talking, Malik. I will get you back, I promise,” Guinevere threatened him.
“I’m an officer of the law now, Gwen. I’m not scared of you—”
“Is filling your truck with spiders against the law?”
I looked back as as I put the plates in the sink; she and the rest of them just laughed at his horrified facial expression.
“Aren’t we a little old for pranks like that?”
“Said the man who’s ‘not scared,’” Roy muttered, drinking his water.
“Like giant children, aren’t they?” her mother whispered, shaking her head.
“Don’t we all kind of revert to giant children when we’re around our siblings? As mature as I hope I am, I still enjoy messing with and teasing my little brother,” I said as I rinsed the dishes.