Which is fine with me. I’m not all that keen on chatting anyway. I stare across the table and try to look as intimidating as the Jerk (aka Chad Bland)—the guy who, for better or worse, is going to become my stepbrother in two months. But let me just say it’s not that easy. For one thing, the guy is the size of a Mack truck. He’s at least three hundred pounds and nine or ten feet tall. Well, no, but he’d hold his own in a look-me-in-the-eye contest with Mark, who, as I’ve mentioned, is six-four. “Surely you can’t think this is a good idea,” Chad says in a tone that I hate. To clarify: I hate it when anyone says to me, “Surely you this,” or “Surely you that.” Like only a fool would think anything else. And I might be a fool. But I would never betray my mother to the likes of this arrogant creep. I look him dead in the eye and shrug. “Personally, I happen to think our parents make a lovely couple. Whatever they choose to do is perfectly fine with me.” Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.
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