A group of friends tries to piece itself back together after losing its glue.
*****
It's a quiet October morning in Palo Alto, California, when the news break out--June Beaumont was...
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SOFIA
They told me about it at breakfast, on a crisp October morning.
To be honest, they probably weren't planning on telling me anything about it, considering I'd barged into the kitchen and interrupted their conversation, but they ultimately decided it wouldn't be fair to keep me in the dark about what had happened.
I could hear the distant mumbling of my parents as I walked down the stairs of our two-story house, stomach grumbling and dread creeping up my spine. They had never been the type of people to share hushed conversations, and, if there was a family in this town that would win the yearbook superlative of 'most likely to break the ice', it would be the Winehearts. That, along with the eerie silence of the neighborhood, quickly led me to think there was something weird going on that morning.
They abruptly shut up once I walked inside the kitchen, my Converse sneakers gliding across the wooden floors in the hallway, and their heads jolted upright to turn to face me. They looked like kids who had just been caught red-handed, doing something they shouldn't; that was a look I'd find on my own face, not on theirs.
"Hello," I greeted, "it is indeed I, Sofia, your favorite daughter."
"Sofia!" my dad, Paul, replied, with excessive enthusiasm—complete with opening his arms in an invitational gesture. "It's wonderful to meet you."
Though Paul wasn't my biological father, he might as well be. From what I'd heard from my mom, I'd gotten my Filipino heritage from her, while my biological father had given me some European roots, though she wasn't certain where from exactly. The three of us fit together snugly, the picture-perfect family the neighborhood coveted, and it felt like he'd been here forever.
I didn't remember him not being in the picture, for that matter, and he and my mom had started dating back when she was still pregnant. He did just fine, wearing his Proud Dad t-shirt whenever he came to watch one of my volleyball matches, lending me money for gas, and pretending he knew nothing about the wine stain in our living room couch.
"What's going on?" I asked, eyeing them both as I waited for an answer. "What were you talking about?"
My mom, Joyce, sighed. In front of her sat a cup of coffee, which seemed to have gone cold, as there was no steam coming out of it, even though the poignant smell still lingered in the kitchen. "What do you want to eat for breakfast?"
"I'd like a nice, hot cup of tea regarding what the hell is going on with the two of you." They shared a nervous look. "See? There you go again, making me feel like you're hiding something."
