Autonomy

Holden

So much to do. So little time. Therefore, there’s no reason for me to be spending half of my Sunday morning staring at my phone, willing it to light up with an unknown number. I have six hours to get some research done before I’m supposed to be at my parents’ house for our weekly family dinner. If I show up late or distracted, my mother will grill me until she uncovers the reason. Nothing escapes her notice when it comes to her kids. She even knew Phoebe was pregnant before she did. Most empty-nesters find a hobby; my mother has never had a hobby outside of being a mum and obsessing over the Royal Family. Her old country roots run deep.

Once again, glancing at the clock, I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Studying material for the four-hour exam I have to complete covering a variety of topics under the umbrella of social and economic history. The sheer volume of material in that category is mind blowing, but it best suited my intended thesis research. The other areas of study are equally broad and intimidating. Hence why studying takes months. There’s no cramming for these exams at the last minute.

I get in the zone for several hours until my phone buzzes on the desk beside the thick copy of A Commerce of Knowledge I have open.

416-555-3462: Guess what my latest book is about. I’ll give you a hint.

I glance at the screen, knowing exactly who the message is from, even though the number isn’t saved in my phone. Correction: wasn’t. It is now.

Holden: What’s the hint?

Minnie: The title is…

What Happened in Vegas

I laugh as I lean back in my desk chair, distancing myself from the dry material I was trying to absorb about the diplomatic expansion of the British. Really, I could just ask my mother, who is a wealth of knowledge when it comes to all things related to her ancestors. Albeit, incredibly biased.

Holden: That’s a tough one…

A single woman, recently dumped by the guy she thought was “the one”. So she goes on a bachelorette trip with her friends. How am I doing?

Minnie: So hot.

I mean, so far, so good.

Like, not cold.

Another laugh escapes me reading her clarification. If Dina thought I was hot in any capacity, I’d be surprised. I’m not totally hopeless, but I’m hardly an adonis. I’m more like Dexter Morgan meets Spencer Reid, but with fewer homicides.

Holden: Everyone gets good and drunk. An Elvis impersonator and a gumball machine ring are involved. They wake up the next morning with no memory of the night before.

Egad! Turns out, they’ve unwittingly gotten married!

But instead of going to get an annulment, like a logical person, this enemies to lovers story has a happily ever after when they realize they’re meant to be after all. Even though, two weeks before, they didn’t know each other existed.

Silence. No bouncing dots to indicate a reply. No cry-laugh emoji at my sad attempt at a plot summary. Nothing. For seven full minutes.

Minnie: You’re scary good at this game.

I’m assuming my guess was somewhat accurate again, which is a little embarrassing considering my fiction reading list is quite short.

Holden: I blame my sister for sharing the entire plot of every book she reads.

Oh, and I’m assuming that one or the other works through a lifetime of issues in those two weeks, so now they’re miraculously cured.

“Hey. Are you almost ready to head to Mum and Dad’s?” My brother leans into our shared office, his hair combed and styled in his typical mid-fade with a side part, giving his dark-blond locks a pronounced hipster barista style. His beard doesn’t help change that perception either. Good thing he is a hipster barista.

I glance at my phone again before replying to him and note the time. “Uh, yeah. I just need a few minutes to change.”

He levels me with the same stare he’s been using for years. Ever since he made it clear that I was a perpetual disappointment to him. We may live together, and we may be civil, but our brotherly love has been lacking for a long time.

I rise from my chair and brush past Boyd without another word. No matter what I say, he’s going to take issue with it.

Family dinner is meant to be casual, but our mum pulls out all the stops. Roast beef and all the traditional fixings. Homemade Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, whatever vegetable she felt inspired to cook, and finishes off with either Banoffee pie or sticky toffee pudding. We may live in the cultural epicentre of Canada, but my parents have not swayed from their roots in the slightest.

Once I’ve pulled on a clean charcoal grey polo shirt and dark jeans, satisfied I will pass Mum’s scrutiny, I bound down the stairs to meet my waiting brother. I heard him stomp down as I was choosing my shirt, and could practically feel the animosity radiating from him with each step. The fact I took an entire three minutes doesn’t help matters.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to show up late,” Boyd grumbles as he heads for the door.

“You could have gone without me. I’m sure I can find my own way.”

That comment earns me an eye roll and a deep sigh.

I spot Phoebe and her husband, Aaron, walking in our parents’ front door as we approach, grateful for the distraction the baby will create. There’s something magical about the first child in the next generation. Grace has been a bright spot for all of us. I’m no baby expert, but I’m pretty sure she’s the cutest child to ever exist.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m curious how Dina replied to my plot summary. Since there’s a strict no phone policy on family dinner nights, I rush to check it before walking through the door. Sometimes I feel like a child in a grown man’s body because I’m terrified of my mother. Checking my phone inside is tantamount to treason in her eyes.

Minnie: You’ve got to stop blaming your sister, Dickens.

Your ability to nail a plot is way too accurate for second-hand knowledge.

I want to defend myself or at least send her back a joke, but my fingers stop short when I enter the foyer of my childhood home. The walk from our place is definitely not long enough.

“Hey, Dad,” I greet when I see my father’s beaming face cooing over his granddaughter.

“Ladies first, Holden. I’ve taught you better.” His smile never wavers as my sister secures Grace in his arms. He stares down at his blue-eyed granddaughter. “You tell him. Gentlemen are a dying breed.”

For as serious as our mother is, our father is the complete opposite, joking at every opportunity. He does have the uncanny ability to “joke” in a way that makes you question who you are to your core, though. This is one such instance.

I toe off my shoes and step toward Phoebe, giving her a side hug and a kiss on her temple. At some point in our teen years, I sprouted up and became her big brother. That’s been our standard greeting ever since. Then I give Grace a peck on her forehead before shaking Aaron’s hand. My mother isn’t in the foyer, so I’m being a rebel when it comes to the ladies first rule.

My father turns toward the living room without another word to me or my siblings, only focused on the baby girl who has captured his heart.

Instead of following him, I beeline to the kitchen, where I’m sure to find my mother. She’s dressed in her typical Sunday outfit—a pleated skirt and plain blouse, covered with a Union Jack apron. No one could ever see my mother cook and question her heritage. One look at the Will and Kate memorabilia in our china cabinet would make it pretty clear, too.

“Smells good in here.” I stride toward my mother and greet her the same way I did my sister.

The woman rarely stops long enough to give her a hug or anything more than a brief greeting. So when she sets the meat thermometer on the counter and stares at me, it’s unnerving.

“Who is she?”

I turn to check behind me, curious who “she” could be, but other than Boyd, no one is in my sightline. “Who is who?”

She wipes her hands on her apron, then plants one weathered hand on her left hip. “You’re seeing someone.” Her abrupt, matter-of-fact statement is void of any excitement or happiness. Almost as if she’s disappointed.

“I’m not seeing anyone.” My body betrays me and takes a gulp of air, swallowing it loudly. “When would I find the time?”

The fresh wave of disappointment oozing from my mother is practically tangible. As if each exhale from her five-foot frame is laced with irritation. “And she has you lying to your mother. She’s no good for you.”