Cashmere & Cunningham – Birthday Blunders

Well, I will spare you the full detailed rundown of my twenty‑second birthday. You’ve read enough about my family on both sides to know that even “small and intimate” evidently still requires catering, a DJ, staff, and — for a “friends and family only” event — suspiciously many faces I knew I wasn’t even remotely related to.

Then again, we all learn in school at some point — usually during either history or biology — that technically we’re all related if you go back a few million years. Probably not quite that many for my family, since there’s Cameron blood in me. Little self‑deprecating inside joke; if you know, you know.

Next time I ask my mother to keep a party small, I’ll be more detailed about what qualifies as “friend and/or relative” in my world.

Never mind that the “intimate” event was also suspiciously crowded, but I guess it depends on your definition of a “small intimate gathering.” Some people set the cap at single digits, some think a couple dozen, and my mom clearly thinks small is anything that wouldn’t fill one of the stadiums she usually sells out. Again, that’s on me — I know my mom, and I should’ve been more specific.

After the initial polite handshaking — the birthday‑boy circuit near the door, giving paw to every arrival like some well‑trained golden retriever in a sports coat— and after enduring the “atta boy, heard you’re about to graduate with nice marks” and the standardized birthday platitudes from whoever was already in circulation, I grabbed the very overwhelmed Evie and made a run for it.

Private Party

The nice thing about growing up on such a large property was that you knew all the quiet spots — the ones the guests never find.

That’s where we went, her carrying an assortment of delicacies we snatched, me with a bottle of Beaumont champagne and glasses.

Evie looked like a dream — her hair in an updo, wearing a new dress she bought just for me, in light minty green. Apparently at some point I told her that was my favorite color. I don’t even remember doing that. And honestly, like most men, I don’t exactly have a favorite color — it’s more of a situational thing. But she remembered. She bought it, just for today. And she wore it, just for me.

We laughed, we talked, we snacked, we drank.

And then I gave her a birthday gift, which she initially tried to fight me on, but then grabbed with that sweet grin and a wink. “Who am I kidding? I know you have great taste and whatever this is is gonna be amazing.”

I processed that, feeling ten feet tall again — notice the trend? She had that effect on me. I watched her fight with the bow, then the paper, until she gave up, vibrating with excitement, and just tore into the paper.

She revealed a small box, looked up at me smiling, then looked at it — and her smile changed to a shocked face when she saw the name and logo of a very famous upscale jewelry store. Her eyes flicked up at me and I was preparing for the fight about “I cannot accept this.”

But she didn’t. She opened it and revealed a necklace — dainty but not frail, gold with a small seashell with a pearl in it.

She stared at it to the point that I thought she didn’t like it, then her free hand flew to her mouth, and she looked at me, her eyes welling up slightly.

“It’s beautiful,” she said — and her tone and face left no doubt. She meant it. Then she suddenly moved forward, throwing her arms around my neck, hugging me so tight I honestly felt like I should have given her something bigger and better to deserve this magnitude of reaction.

When she let go, she handed me the box and turned her back to me.

“Put it on me, please.”

Okay, simple enough — but somehow, I felt like my mom must feel going on stage for the first concert after a longer break. Dad once told me she suffered stage fright so bad that the night before, he always gave her something mild against her anxiety and always was with her. No matter where she performed or when, Dad was there for her before opening night. That. Me. Right now.

I saw my hands shaking as I tried to look like those men in the movies during similar scenes, but I barely got the clasp closed — I shook so viciously.

When it was on, she turned to me — and I don’t know why, she looked so perfect, so radiant, like Mom on her and Dad’s wedding photo in the living room. When I was little, I always pointed at it saying “angel.” My mom used to be the perfect woman to me growing up. It wasn’t until later that I realized she, too, had flaws.

Wait — did I just compare my… friend… to my mother on her wedding day?!

What is wrong with me?!

That goes twice because what came out of my mouth next:

“You look beautiful.”

WHAT?!

Nathaniel Cameron Cunningham — just superglue your mouth shut, will you?!

She didn’t react at first.

She just stood there, necklace catching the late‑afternoon light, her eyes widening a fraction like she wasn’t sure she’d heard me right. For a second I thought maybe she hadn’t — maybe the breeze had carried the words away, maybe I’d imagined saying them, maybe I’d hallucinated the whole thing out of sheer panic.

But then her cheeks flushed. Just a little. Just enough.

Her eyes dropped to the ground, then lifted back to me — soft, warm, almost shy. I had never seen her look shy. Not once. Not even when she was overwhelmed or tired or caught off guard. But she looked shy now.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Not giggly. Not teasing. Not brushing it off.

Just… sincere.

Her fingers brushed the seashell pendant, tracing the curve of it like she was memorizing it. The tiny pearl caught the light and for a moment I swear the whole world narrowed to that one point — her hand, the necklace, the way she touched it like it meant something.

I felt my heartbeat in my throat.

She looked up again, eyes bright in a way that made my stomach flip.

“Nate… really. Thank you. I love it. It’s the most beautiful gift ever.”

Her voice was soft. Soft in a way I’d never heard from her. Soft in a way that made me want to say something else, something more, something honest and terrifying.

But I didn’t. Because I am me. And me is a disaster.

So I just nodded, trying to look normal, trying to look like I hadn’t just compared her to my mother on her wedding day and then told her she looked beautiful like some Victorian poet having a breakdown.

She smiled — small, warm, almost private — and for a moment I thought I might actually pass out.

Then she reached for the champagne again, lifting her glass.

“To twenty‑two,” she said. “And… to this.”

Evie hesitated, then reached for her small clutch. “Um… I actually got you something too,” she said, suddenly shy in a way I’d never seen. “It’s nothing big — I mean, you know my financial situation is dire after the apartment and the outfits for the vacation, so I had to kinda Etsy this a bit. Just… something I wanted you to have.”

She handed me a small wrapped package.

Inside was a framed photo — and I just about had a coronary when I saw the almost‑kiss on the beach in Sulani. The one Mom took during her Momzilla Moment. The one I didn’t want to look at when she tried to show me. The one I definitely didn’t think she’d share with Evie. Jeeze, Mom.

Evie beamed. “Your mom sent it to me. I don’t know, but if she ever gets tired of singing she might have a career in photography — look how perfect it came out. And not even a filter! Your mom is like super amazing. Takes me fifty attempts to get one decent selfie and she just — snap — and this. I mean, and in that bad lighting too.”

I stared at it, brain short‑circuiting. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right, and so was Evie. It was a great shot. The lights behind us, the ocean blur, her face turned toward mine, my face turned toward hers — that suspended moment right before everything changed. It really looked like an album cover. And if your mom isn’t a professional artist, I’ll tell you that usually takes a team of pros — photographers, staging, reshoots, and a graphic design team. Obviously, this was a one‑click slam‑dunk. It looked intentional. It looked… dangerous. I’ll tell you what it didn’t look like: me leaning in to talk. Nope.

Evie didn’t seem to notice any of that. She was totally oblivious to what almost happened in that very moment. And now I knew it had been her birthday. She just looked proud of the frame she’d picked.

“I thought it was… special,” she said softly. “So I printed it. For you. You like it?”

I nearly died. “Love it. Thank you. This is … amazing.” I mumbled, hugging her.

When I let go I stared at the photo then sat it down. If I looked at it longer I’d kiss her right now.

She touched the necklace lightly.

I clinked my glass against hers, trying not to combust.

“To twenty as well,” I added — and for reasons unknown to science, my mouth apparently decided to freelance without consulting my brain. “You know… birthdays should be retroactively honored. It’s never too late to… uh… administratively and celebratorily acknowledge milestones.”

WHAT did I just say?!

Fantastic. My stress response had once again aged me thirty years and made me sound like my father giving a quarterly report.

Evie blinked. Then laughed — soft, delighted, the kind of laugh that makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

“Nate,” she said, shaking her head, “you’re adorable.”

Adorable. Me. Adorable.
That was one way to put it. Not any of the verbs that popped up in my brain, but I’ll take adorable.

I was about to short‑circuit when she set her glass down, stepped closer, and kissed my cheek.

Just a quick, warm press of lips. Barely a second. Barely anything.

But it detonated my entire operating system.

Full shutdown. Mental blue screen. Please wait while your heir reboots.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink.

She pulled back with that same small, warm, private smile — the one that felt like it was meant only for me.

“Happy birthday,” she said softly. “And… thank you for remembering mine.”

Remembering. Right. Yes. Totally something I did intentionally and not because I’d been spiraling about missing it for weeks after finally having the brain cell to even ask her when hers was upon realizing a year had passed without her having a birthday which really should have flagged harder and sooner for me.

I nodded. Like a malfunctioning animatronic. Like someone had unplugged me and plugged me back in wrong.

She laughed again — that warm, summer‑soft sound — and the moment settled, quiet and golden and perfect. The kind of moment you don’t realize is going to matter until later, when you’re lying awake thinking about it and wondering how you’re supposed to go back to pretending nothing is happening.

My brain was floating somewhere above my head until she bumped my lips with something — a tiny chocolate truffle from our loot — and then another, and another, feeding me sweets between giggles until we ended up lying down in the grass, staring up at the sky like two kids playing hooky.

The clouds were few, scattered, drifting lazily across the perfect blue. But somehow we saw everything in them.

Evie pointed first.

“That one looks like a llama wearing a top hat.”

I squinted. It did. Disturbingly so.

“Oh, and that one,” I pointed, snickering “looks just like a …. cloud.”

I laughed while she shoved me.

“You’re doing it wrong. Focus, Cunningham and use your imagination. That one,” she countered, “is clearly a disgruntled goose named Karen asking for the manager.”

I snorted. “What? How are you seeing those things?”

“Look at the neck and the body. That is a goose. And on her head? A Karen haircut. That’s a beak that has seen things. She complained to the wrong people.”

I nearly suffocated laughing, and she laughed so hard she almost dropped another truffle on me.

A new cloud drifted by — long, stretched, vaguely rectangular.

“That’s a toaster,” she declared.

“With… wings?” I added.

“Obviously. A flying toaster. Very aerodynamic. I mean, we have self‑driving cars — we NEED a flying toaster now.”

We were already losing it, but then she pointed at a tiny puff of cloud barely holding itself together.

“Oh my god, Nate — that one looks like a pineapple wearing sunglasses.”

I stared. I blinked. I tried to see anything else.

“No,” I said. “That is a potato. A potato with… a perm.”

She gasped like I’d insulted her personally, trying not to laugh.

“Perm‑potato?! Nate, that is a pineapple. Look at the vibe.”

“What vibe? It’s a potato. Wait— it moved. Now it’s giving something square. With pants. It’s SpongeBob.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, it’s a pineapple.”

“SpongeBob is a SPONGE, as the name implies, not a pineapple. He lives in a pineapple,” I corrected.

“Are you sure? Wasn’t he a starfish?”

“That’s Patrick, his best friend and he lives under a rock, maybe a neighbor of yours? And yeah, I’m sure. If you don’t believe me, we can go up to my room — I still have my SpongeBob PJs in my drawer of shame.”

“Drawer of— okay, now I REALLY want to go up to your room. I gotta see that drawer!”

“We can go to my room all you want, but you will never find that drawer. I will burn the house down before I let that happen.”

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” she giggled.

“You have a drawer of shame? What’s in there?” I blurted out.

“Same as yours, I’d imagine. Embarrassing memorabilia, dubious but strangely nostalgic fashion choices… why? What’s in yours? You G-String collection? Your perm kit?” she grinned at me expectantly.

“I’ll have you know my curls are 100% natural and homegrown, I mean, have you looked at my Dad and my sisters? We all have that upper class poodle look going. I leave you guessing on the G-Strings, try to sleep now with that would-he-won’t-he thought. But I think I need to explain to you the point of those drawers of shame being that it’s embarrassing stuff we used to wear but won’t be caught dead hanging over a fence in anymore, because I honestly thought I accidentally walked in on you wearing all the embarrassing stuff already – usually combined with mentally scarring face and hair masks and eye patch things,” I joked.

She gasped, kicked off her heels, and I knew I was in trouble. I tried to set down the booze and scramble up, but she literally tackled me, and we ended up wrestling and tickling each other.
Evie had me pinned like a butterfly, knees on either side of my hips, pinning both my wrists down, while mercilessly tickling my ribs and belly. I was snorting, actually snorting, trying to twist away even though she had me locked down like a professional wrestler. My shirt was half‑untucked, her hair had fallen all over my face, and I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

It was one hundred percent innocent, but from a distance?

It must have looked… deeply, catastrophically dubious. Naturally, we didn’t even think about that until—

Nothing To See Here

A throat cleared.

We froze. A flash.

We both jerked our heads up and saw Dad giving me the People’s Eyebrow and Mom tapping around on her phone.

Cringe.

We scrambled up, matching crimson blushes on both our faces.

Dad didn’t say anything at first — which was somehow worse. He just gave me that look, the one that said I’m not judging you, but I am absolutely judging you. Mom, meanwhile, was already swiping through her camera roll like she was preparing evidence for a future roast.

“Having fun?” Dad finally asked, voice maddeningly neutral.

“Yes,” Evie said brightly, because she is brave and pure and does not fear death.

“Thrills me beyond words,” Dad said dryly. “Nate, you have about half an hour until cake. It would be wonderful if you as the guest of honor could join us. All those people are here for your birthday, yet, they have barely as much as glimpsed at you. Since it is you special day, you do what you wish, but please, be there to blow out your candles. Oh, and … tuck your shirt in, kid, and straighten out your hair. You look like you were in a bar brawl.”

I, on the other hand, had forgotten how to speak again. Or move.

Evie looked at me, then at my dad, then at my mom. She smiled, nudged me once, then again harder, but I wouldn’t snap out of stuffed‑animal mode. So, she turned to them, still smiling.

“He’ll be there in plenty of time! Groomed to perfection.”

Mom smiled at us — that soft, knowing smile she gets when she sees something she likes but isn’t going to comment on yet. “We’ll leave you two be,” she said, and they walked off, Dad shaking his head like he’d just witnessed a nature documentary about twenty‑somethings in the wild.

Evie covered her face with both hands. “Oh my god.”

“Yep,” I said. “We’re never living that down.”

“I’m glad you finally remember how to talk.”

“Not as glad as me.” I said dryly.

She peeked at me through her fingers. “Your dad’s eyebrow did… a thing.”

“I know. He perfected that.” I told her, while tucking in my shirt and running my fingers through my curls.

“And your mom took a picture.”

“I know.”

“And we were— we probably looked really sus.”

“Yup,” I confirmed. “Just you and me rolling around in the grass. On my birthday. At a catered event large enough to rival the Kentucky Derby. Way to establish myself in society as immature.”

“No, what they saw was some rando girl pinning you down like Kathy Bates’ rebirth from that old movie — what is it called again? The one where she fangirls that writer and breaks his legs so he can’t leave her.”

“Psycho,” I said.

“No, that was the one under the shower. Maybe The Shining? No, that was something else…”

“No, I was calling you one…” I laughed, jumping up and getting a head start when she scrambled up after me, heels in hand. “You better run, Cunningham, you will think Psycho!”

Splish-Splash

And because I was running so superhumanly fast my brain must have fallen out, I turned backwards to see how fast she was catching up. When I turned forward again, I saw two staff members wheeling my birthday cake toward a decorated gathering spot outside.

In a reflex — to avoid ramming the cake and the people into oblivion — I dodged left and… well… you know that dream where you’re running and suddenly you’re falling?

Yeah. That. Except not a dream.

I remember thinking what the— as my legs suddenly treaded air and then the water engulfed me while I drank half our pool during the startled gasp that followed.

I was so confused until I understood my dumb ass had run straight into the pool.

I had just come back up when I heard a loud splash and screams and gasps and murmuring from people staring down at me — because Evie broke the surface right next to me.

I stared at her. She stared at me. Both of us bobbing in the pool.

Then we burst out laughing so hard Dad and Chad had to give us a hand, because we tried several times to climb out and couldn’t for weakening, disorienting laughter.

My laughter vanished when I looked at Dad. That poor man literally looked like he had checked off the last box on his Seen It All card.

There was murmuring, whispering, giggling, laughing — everything in between — as the guests did their best to prove they were high society and not rubbernecking lower class, some failing miserably, while Dad sighed at us.

“Nate, why don’t you go upstairs for a change of clothes. I’m sure my lovely wife wouldn’t mind helping out Evie.”

“Nope, would not,” Mom said, trying so hard to keep it together and failing spectacularly. I saw my sisters dying somewhere in the background, faces bright pink with laughter, gasping for air within an inch of survival, while Mom put her hand on Evie’s back and guided her toward the house.

“Nate!” Dad said when I once more just stood there ogling.

“On it, Dad,” I mumbled, tail tucked, as I trotted inside.

I managed to change, dry my hair, and when Evie came back with Mom — looking even more stunning than before — I blew out the candles, endured the stares of everyone who saw me and Evie fall in the pool just half an hour ago, listened to what felt like fifty toasts, and then ate my cake like a good boy smiling politely at other guests with Evie trying to be invisible next to me.

Wind-Down

When it all started to wind down, Evie and I went back to our original spot, but the staff had found it and taken everything. Even the photo was gone, probably set in my room. Great, now some staff members had seen it too. Couldn’t wait for that to surface somewhere on social media at the worst time.

She groaned and flopped back onto the lawn, arms spread like a starfish. “We’re disasters.”

The grass rustled under her, soft and cool now that the sun had dipped behind the tree line. Fireflies blinked lazily in the shrubs nearby, and the faint hum of distant conversation drifted from the house like a fading echo of the party.

“Speak for yourself,” I said, lying down beside her. “I’m a very dignified twenty‑two‑year‑old.”

She snorted, then turned her head toward me, eyes sparkling in the low light. “You literally said something like ‘administratively acknowledge milestones,’ where most people would’ve gone with ‘happy belated birthday.’ And then you walked into a pool. Hella dignified.”

Cringing inside, I chose humor to deal with it. “Firstly, I didn’t walk into a pool — I ran and… had to divert, and it was… in the way. Second, Dad keeps trying to get me to elevate my way of speaking and recently told me to jump into my future with both feet. He didn’t specify it couldn’t also be our pool. So, I did. Do not recommend.”

“I would second that,” she said, laughing softly. “Especially not in front of what feels like the population of an average town. I will now forever be that nameless nobody who jumped into the Cunningham pool during the heir’s birthday. Kill me now. But — say what you want — you are as dorky as you are adorable.”

Adorable. Again. She kept saying that. I was going to need medical attention. But of course I got hung up on the dorky part.

“You fell in too,” I said, sounding almost as pouty as I was.

“No, I jumped in after you. I thought you were gonna drown.”

“Drown? Me? Hello?! You do realize I swim daily, right? That’s how I get my strong shoulders — which came in useful hauling half the contents of the local IKEA warehouse up to your apartment. And my abs,” I snapped back.

It wasn’t until the words were already out — defensive, stupid, absolutely missing the point — that it hit me. She jumped in because she thought I was drowning. Yet instead of acknowledging that, I’d gone with… prolific swimmer and abs. Phenomenal. Truly elite emotional intelligence on display.

“What abs?” she snorted.

It almost worked — I sat up, reaching new heights of feeling insulted, mouth locked and loaded with a snippy reply, hands on the buttons of my fresh shirt — when I paused and realized she was messing with me. Wasn’t hard; she was almost rolling in the grass with laughter at this point.

I pointed a finger at her. “Good one.”

She giggled and snorted, the sound bright and unfiltered, like she didn’t care who heard.

We lay back into the grass again, the sky now a dark velvety blue above us. The first stars drifted through, faint and shy, like they were waiting for permission to shine. The air smelled like cut grass and distant barbecue smoke, and somewhere a cricket started its nightly sermon.

Evie nudged my shoulder. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for today. I know I sound like a broken record, but it’s true — I’m having more fun every time we hang. Every day I spend with you is like the best day ever. Until the next time. Seems impossible, but it is. You always manage to up yourself.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. Back at you.”

She smiled — small, warm, private — and for a moment everything felt simple.

Just us. Just summer. Just a birthday that suddenly meant more than I’d expected.

Nightly Disturbance

Luckily, Evie stayed over that night. The guests finally left, the music faded, and the house settled into that late‑evening quiet where every sound feels softer. We stayed up so late we were both delirious — okay, the many toasts we shared just among the two of us didn’t help.

I walked her to her room, and I use the term ‘walking’ loosely. We were so wasted, it was more a stumbling while trying to keep each other from falling flat on our faces. The stairs were especially challenging in our condition. I think we were even holding hands, but I was too out of it to swear on it. At her door she turned to me, like they do in movies, and that mood happened — the soft‑focus, slow‑motion kind.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We whispered thank yous at each other over and over, because we’d had so much fun and we were both lit.

I leaned in, slowly, transported back to the beach bar in Sulani, my lips getting closer and closer to hers when she suddenly shoved me away hard — and before I could be fully insulted, she hurled onto the floor.

After that she was mortified, even though I couldn’t help laughing while trying to clean it up with a dustpan set that made me gag. When I finally got most of it into the dustbin, I stood up and threw up right on the floor. Evie moved a large planter over it with her leg, and we both lost it, laughing so loud Dad popped out of his room.

“Nathaniel! Can you please explain to me— Nate, are you drunk?”

As if on cue, I hiccupped. Charlotte and Caroline opened their doors at the same time.

Charley lifted her silk sleeping mask, assessed the scene, huffed, and closed her door again.

Caroline, closest to me, looked as if I had thrown up on her feet.

“Dad, do you see now why I’ve been begging you for the poolhouse?! I have THAT for a brother. OMG! I deserve my own place because of …. him! You are disgusting, Nate!” she gestured at the whole of me.

Dad sighed, turned, and went back into his and Mom’s bedroom. With a groan, Caroline slammed her door too.

“Wow, if I keep it up I will have them all hate me in record time,” Evie said.

“They don’t hate you. They’re too busy looking up if it’s too late to abort me.”

“No, Natey. You are always perfect; I am the disturbance here …” she said with too much sincerity to be anything but genuine. It hit me hard – and surprisingly made me speechless. Yeah. Pattern. I know. I was also freaking drunk beyond recognition, so I really had no choice but to let it go. The brain wasn’t gonna brain tonight. The end.

Eventually, we made it to bed — me in mine, Evie in the guest room.

Obviously, in bed all the best lines I should have said came to me. Dramatic sigh.

Breakfast of Champions … Campers

Breakfast the next morning was rough. Biblically rough. Everything was ten times brighter, louder, and more annoying than usual. The clink of silverware felt like a construction site. Even the orange juice looked aggressive — like some eerily glowing toxic‑waste situation wavering about in my glass. Ugh.

I sat slumped at the table, elbows braced, head in my hands, moving like someone had replaced my joints with wet cardboard. Every shift made something in my body complain. Evie didn’t look much better — pale, puffy‑eyed, clutching her coffee like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Dad sat at the head of the table — not because he ruled the house, but because Mom liked the visual symmetry. Mom sat beside him looking photoshoot‑ready at eight in the morning, posture perfect, hair immaculate, tapping her coffee mug with one manicured finger like she was keeping time for a band only she could hear. She wasn’t just amused; she was performing her amusement.

Dad lowered his newspaper — the real kind, because he insists the “morning ritual” hits different on paper even though he’s terrifyingly proficient with his tablets, yes, plural, he has several which he sometimes treats like extra limbs — just enough to look at me over the rim of his glasses. It was the slow, clinical assessment he used on patients who insisted they were “fine” while bleeding.

“You look terrible,” he said, voice smooth as polished steel. “Congratulations. That’s what happens when you drink like a garbage disposal. I am all for celebrating your next era, but did you have to mass‑destruct every last inch of your dignity? Not like your life is so hard you have to drink it pretty.”

I groaned. “Dad…”

He lifted his mug. “Hydrate. Both of you. Or don’t. I’m off duty.”

Mrs. Marwood appeared at my elbow like she’d been summoned by the word hydrate, lifting the crystal pitcher with the solemnity of a baptism. The water hit my glass in a steady stream that, in my hungover brain, sounded like Niagara Falls detonating inside my skull. I flinched. Evie did too — hers quieter, but equally tragic — when Mrs. Marwood poured her a refill next.

Mom chirped in her always‑too‑chipper morning voice — which, to my hungover brain, registered more like screaming, though only Evie and I winced, so logic suggested the problem was us — “So, what have you planned for the rest of the summer break? Just nine more days now,” tapping her mug like she was hitting a cymbal. She angled her chin toward the imaginary camera like she was about to introduce the next song in her set.

“Camping!” Evie blurted — too loud, too fast, too everything — right as Mrs. Marwood topped off her coffee again. The word hit the table like a grenade. I cringed. She cringed. She actually brought a hand to her forehead like she wanted to shove the word back in.

Mrs. Marwood froze mid‑pour, eyes widening. “Camping? Our Nathaniel?! Oh God! Oh dear — pardon me. I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

Dad didn’t miss a beat. He nodded once, approvingly, like she’d just delivered a correct diagnosis. “Don’t apologize, Mrs. Marwood. You only said what everyone else was thinking.”

Mom’s eyebrows lifted — that slow, theatrical rise she’d perfected over decades of performing. “Camping?” she repeated, incredulous, then took a delicate sip of her coffee like she was savoring the drama.

I tried to sit up straighter to look less like a corpse, but my spine refused. My stomach rolled. My dignity was missing, presumed dead.

Evie nudged me under the table, whispering, “We look like matching roadkill. And I feel it too. How about you?”

“Worse,” I groaned quietly.

I wanted to say more, but vomit shot up my throat without warning, and all I could do was jump up and run to one of the downstairs guest restrooms. I heard footsteps behind me and, since I didn’t lock the door, Evie burst in behind me and regurgitated into the still‑flushing toilet while startled me was washing my hands, staring at her.

We returned together, in a sort of adapted walk of shame, to our seats, where now two small bowls of something beige and steaming sat waiting.

“Mrs. Marwood was so kind as to prepare some bland porridge for you,” Dad said, slipping effortlessly into doctor mode. “You both need something gentle to settle your stomachs. I’ll also get you each a small dose of ondansetron for the nausea.”

We didn’t feel like arguing, so we began spooning like two children who had been punished.

Mrs. Marwood cleared her throat — the kind of polite, restrained sound that meant doom.

“Umm, I hate to bring this up at a table setting,” she began, hands folded with the solemnity of a woman delivering a verdict, “but I couldn’t help noticing some… unexpected challenges in the upstairs hallway this morning.”

I nearly suffocated on my bite. Evie froze mid‑motion. My sisters collapsed into hysterics, snorting and jabbing each other’s arms. Dad closed his eyes like he was silently counting to ten, and Mom produced a facial expression that defied both description and physics.

Mrs. Marwood continued, voice tight with long‑suffering dignity. “In nearly thirty years of service to this household, I have handled spills, stains, breakages, and the occasional… incident. But what I encountered today falls firmly outside my job description. I am a housekeeper, Dr. and Mrs. Cunningham — not an emergency response unit.”

Evie covered her face with both hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We tried to clean it.”

Mrs. Marwood inhaled sharply. “With a dustpan? I do not expect anyone in this family to be aware of proper cleaning methods, but it should be obvious that placing a planter over regurgitation is just… deeply symbolic.”

My sisters howled.

Dad set his coffee cup down with a sharp, decisive click. “Mrs. Marwood, thank you for bringing this to our attention. That is absolutely not in your job description. Please hire a professional cleaning service and charge it to me.”

He shot me a glare that could have sterilized a surgical suite, and Mom added one of her own — sharper, quieter, but somehow worse.

I wanted to die.

Dad gave up on his paper, folded it, and set it aside. He looked at me, then at Evie, then back at me again.

“Soooo… camping? May I ask why… camping? Evie, if that wasn’t already abundantly clear, Nathaniel didn’t exactly grow up with such pastimes, and without trying to sound insensitive, I can’t really picture him enjoying it. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather look into fun alternatives?”

“Yes! Nothing helps two people bond like being out in nature, and when Nate suggested a little vacation — just him and I…” Evie began, only to be cut off by my sisters erupting into a perfectly synchronized “OOOOOH!” that was suspiciously well‑rehearsed.

She shot them the same glare I did, which only made them laugh harder.

“Anyway,” Evie said to my parents, ignoring my idiotic sisters, “to answer your question, Dr. Cunningham, my dad used to take my mom and me camping every year. I have nothing but the best memories.”

Their laughter stopped instantly after the glare Dad sent over.

Dad said, “What a lovely idea. I’m sure Nate could do worse than spend some time connecting with nature — pump some fresh air into his lungs, clear his system a bit, unbury his brain from all the studying he’s been doing the past year or two. Are we thinking about renting a cabin or… really roughing it?”

My sisters didn’t miss a beat, bursting into hysterical cackles.

“I am sure he wants to pump hard AF,” Charley repeated, elbowing her sister.

“When he’s not busy burying his—”

“Caroline,” Dad snapped, without looking at her.

“—tent poles,” she finished, absolutely not meaning tent poles. Even with my poor brain only running on half‑staff, I knew that.

They dissolved into giggles.

Mom shot them her best Mom glare. “Girls, dial it back — we are not revisiting your middle‑school era. Can we be done with the innuendos now? I’m getting bored, and you know bored makes me cranky… and you won’t like me when I’m cranky.”

Dad didn’t look up from his coffee. “I know I don’t particularly enjoy your mom cranky, and it might make me ground everyone.”

Charlotte groaned. “Dad, you can’t ground us, we’re all over eighteen.”

Both parents raised an eyebrow at her — perfectly synchronized, perfectly unimpressed.

“Ah yeah? Could’ve fooled us,” Dad said, eerily calm. “I could do what my father used to do and launch into the ‘as long as you live under my roof’ speech. Would you like that?”

“Braddy, don’t even go there or I will lose my shit,” Mom warned — but the threat was aimed squarely at my sisters.

Instantly nothing was funny anymore; suddenly yogurt and muffins were the most fascinating objects on earth.

“Uh, to answer your question … well …tent, I thought,” Evie said.

I choked on my coffee. “What?” I whimpered.

“Yeah. What did you think? Camping implies a tent, doesn’t it? Just me? Okay.”

“Well, I kinda did think a cabin.” I pointed at Dad, since he had brought it up.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess a cabin would be… one way.” Her real thoughts couldn’t have been louder.

Mom spoke up, for once to help me out. “Evie, sweetheart, take it from me — you want a cabin. It’s literally the barest minimum that can still be considered civilized past a certain age. And — no offense — you both are well past that age.”

“What would Mom know about camping?” Caroline blurted out — and got the parental glare times two.

“I would know enough to have a proper opinion on it, okay?” Mom said defensively.

Charlotte knew how to take a hint and also knew better than to poke that bear. Caroline still looked unimpressed and unconvinced — the benefit of being the youngest.

Dad explained sparsely, “Let’s call it experiences from her life before all this, and now drop the subject. If your mother says she knows, then she knows.”

Backstory: as you know, Mom has been married four times — twice to Dad and twice to Jackson Kershaw, the horse rancher who makes basic look posh. Mom had to stay in tents on the prairie and lived in a wooden cabin with him. And she was born in a similar setting as me. So, yeah. She knew. And I really trusted her judgment here.

I spoke up. “Yeah, sorry Evie, it’s gonna have to be a cabin for me.”

“That’s fine. I get it, I guess.”

“I’ll have my assistant look into it,” Dad decided, probably not trusting us to come up with something that wouldn’t get his heir eaten or dismembered.

And you know how an idea sounds intriguing until it’s getting real? Yeah … that. Me. Now.
Camping, huh?
Well, millions of people did it every year so … had to be good, right?

Right?