The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

Was I a terrible person for finding that funny?

After grace, people surged toward the buffet table. Neil and I had agonized over the menu, trying to find some happy balance between Christmas for my working-class family and the kind of food the rest of our guests wouldn’t sneer at. And there were vegan options, as usual; we’d never stopped designing celebrations that took Emma into account. I think we’d both noticed that by now, but neither of us wanted to be the one to suggest changing it.

On the table, my grandma’s potato salad sat in a crystal bowl beside glazed beets and candied walnuts. The roast ptarmigan sat side-by-side with a huge, glistening ham that could have been out of a 1950’s cookbook, complete with pineapple rings and cherries. I watched as my mother and Aunt Marie warily surveyed the bacon-wrapped dates.

Two sets of double doors led from the ballroom to the formal dining room, which had been reconfigured from its usual long table to several smaller ones. I saved a seat for Neil at one of them, then spotted him sitting with Valerie and Olivia and Rashida. He gave me an apologetic glance as my cousin Tim and his wife Sheila took the remaining two seats.

“Looking for someone to sit with you?” El-Mudad asked from behind me. I turned, relieved to see him there.

“Yes, apparently there isn’t room for me next to my husband,” I tried to observe evenly.

El-Mudad pulled a chair out for me just as Mom and Tony passed by with their plates.

“Are these taken?” Mom asked the two of us.

I realized I may have been leaning ever-so-slightly into El-Mudad’s side. “No, Mom. Take them.”

She glanced over our heads as she took her seat. “I see Neil found a friend to catch up with.”

“Mmhm.” It was so tempting to make a snide comment, but I was above that. Whenever it came to Valerie, it was like I had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, and both of them wanted to see how petty I could be.

“Not eating, Soph?” Tony asked, gesturing to my lack of a plate.

“I am. I just need to pop out and check my numbers.” I turned to El-Mudad. “Will you save me a seat?”

“I thought I would go with you,” he said, quickly adding, “So you could show me which potato salad was your grandmother’s. She insisted that I try it. And she assured me it was kosher.”

“Yikes,” I breathed. “She tried.”

Mom shook her head, “Jesus, Ma.”

“Go on, we’ll save your places,” Tony offered.

As I pushed back my chair, I tried not to think too hard about how much my future stepfather knew about us.

Neil looked up at El-Mudad and I as we passed his table, where Rashida tried to convince Olivia to try an anchovy. Neil gave us another weak smile as if to say, this wasn’t my fault, I merely got swept away from the two of you. Enjoy your Christmas dinner on your own.

As we passed under the doors to the ballroom, where the line at the buffet had thinned, El-Mudad said under his breath, “He seems to be quite close with his ex-girlfriend.”

A mean little thrill of vindication went through me. I forced it away. “Well, you know. They shared Emma. Now we share Olivia.”

I couldn’t help it. I pushed a little more.

“Why? Are you jealous?” I tried to make it sound like idle curiosity and not the desperate hope that it was. If El-Mudad was jealous, then I was normal. I wasn’t some mean girl stereotype fueled by internalized misogyny and fears of inadequacy.

“Not...jealous.” Oh, he was thoroughly jealous.

“Just so you know, Valerie is like, super duper in love with Laurence. We’re not supposed to tell Neil because it might ‘upset him,’ but they just eloped before the holiday.” I waited to see if El-Mudad’s reaction would be the same as mine.

He frowned. “Why would Neil be upset?”

“Exactly.” I sighed heavily and made for Joan, who awaited me by the staff entrance, smiling broadly. She held out my glucometer, test strips, and lancet device on a silver tray with some alcohol wipes. I picked one up. “Thank you, Joan. You don’t have to watch if it grosses you out.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” she assured me.

“Here, let me,” El-Mudad offered, taking the alcohol wipe I struggled with and carefully tearing the top open. He pulled the cloth out and took my hand. “Index finger?”

“Middle, this time. I’m giving Mr. Pointer a rest.” At his puzzled look, I explained, “It’s this song that we sang in elementary school. Every finger is mister something. It’s kind of sexist.”

“Women can be anything. Even fingers,” he agreed with mock solemnity, gently cleaning my skin. He picked up the lancet device and pressed the point to my fingertip. The button on the back, like a ballpoint pen, popped a spring and shot the blade into my skin. Though I’d been doing it for a year, it still took a minute to suck up my courage, so I appreciated El-Mudad’s willingness to help. The pen clicked, and the lancet poked my finger. I squeezed a drop of blood to the surface and wiped it on the test strip jutting from the glucometer.