Page 8 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

But no one is coming to greet me.

My stomach clutches, and oh god, do they know? Did Chris call them? They love him, and Mom checks my left hand every single time I see her, and the thought of my own parents being so upset by our breakup that they’d avoid their own daughteron her birthdayis—well, I just don’t think I could take it.

I’m about to ring the bell again, when the door flies open, and there’s Dad, wearing nothing but his bathrobe—and a bedazzled pink plastic cowboy hat that says “29 and Lookin’fine.” Behind him, I hear Mom yell, “Davey! The hat! You’re still wearing the hat!”

I don’t think he hears her, though, because he’s standing in the doorway staring at me, deer-in-the-headlights style, clutching at the lapels of his robe like it’s a string of pearls and he’s a ’50s housewife.

“It’s... not the DoorDash,” Dad says, sounding strangled.

“If they’re going to take so long, I guess I could justmakesome whipped cream,” Mom announces as she steps out from the hall that leads to their bedroom. She is also radically underdressed, wearing nothing but very high heels and an apron emblazoned with the phrase, “Who’s Your Mama?”

Oh god.

I think the heart attack is coming back.

A few minutes later, the three of us are sitting at the bright yellow Formica kitchen table avoiding eye contact, but at least everyone’s fully dressed. I spin the lazy Susan in the middle of the table like it’s a roulette wheel. I don’t know why—all I’m doing today is losing.

“It’s just...welike to celebrate your birthday too,” Dad says, staring up at the ceiling.

“It was a pretty big deal, you know,” Mom adds. “That we succeeded.”

Dad picks up. “On account of my low—”

“Nope,” I say quickly. “We are not talking about this.”

And here I thought there was nothing I wanted to talk aboutlessthan my breakup.

Welp.

“I need to move in for a while,” I blurt out. No sense beating around the bush. So to speak.

They share a look that I have zero interest in decoding.

Mom clears her throat. “What happened with—”

“Chris and I are taking a short, verymutualbreather,” I say, hoping that my subtext,Do not ask me about this,is very, very clear.

“I guess I could empty out your old bedroom?” Dad asks uncertainly.

“Not necessary!” I say as brightly as I can. “I’ll just move the boxes off the bed. This is short term.Veryshort term.” It’s a lie and we all know it.

Dad gives me an awkward thumbs-up.

I’m trying not to take the lack of enthusiasm personally. After all, it’s not just them. None of us want me here.

After a moment of silence, Mom says, “Well, what do you want for a birthday dinner?”

I opt for full-on comfort food, and we order a couple pizzas from Raul’s, which happened to be my birthday dinner every year until I turned sixteen. The great thing about thin crust tavern-style pizza is you can stuff approximately a million squares into your mouth before you want to die.

Comforting, yes. Also extremely depressing.

Once we’ve placed the order, I text Hannah and see if she canpick me up at my parents’ house for our night out. And also maybe bring a cute outfit I can borrow.

Hannah doesn’t text back right away, and I’ll admit I’m feelingprettysorry for myself, and rightly so, as a person who just got fired, dumped, and then had to listen to her dad wax nostalgic about his sperm count. But I tell myself she’s still state-of-the-unioning, or doing whatever an influencer does during the day. I decide to make the best of things, so I grab some fresh twin sheets from the linen closet and stick my head in my old room.

Ugh.

Dad,come on.