VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 124

[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]

I walked in backwards, shoulder to the door, hands full to the point of numbness, bags swinging and clattering against my legs.

My dad was the one who opened it, and when he saw the mountain I was carrying — tote bags cutting into my arms, a paper sack balanced on my hip, a tray of condiments tucked under my chin — his face dropped into that look. The one that says what the hell is wrong with you, and why is it always me that has to witness it.

"Jesus Christ, Andrea—"

Behind me, Oscar appeared with three more bags dangling from his wrists, shaking his head helplessly, eyes wide in warning. He was already making the throat-slash 'don't' gesture.

"I did try to tell her this was only a barbecue."

I barreled down the hall. "You said you wanted burgers, didn't you, Dad? Well, I've got burgers! I've got buns. I've got spices. I've got the good cheese. I've got..." I nudged a swinging tote bag higher up my shoulder with my elbow, "...three different mayos, four ketchups, two barbecue sauces, and six types of pickles."

"Six? What—"

"Sweet, dill, spicy, cornichons, bread-and-butter, and those garlic ones no one actually likes but they look impressive on the table."

I stopped halfway down the hall when I realised nobody was following me. My dad was still in the doorway, Oscar hovering beside him.

"Well?! Come on! Everyone's gonna be here soon, and I haven't even started marinating the chicken."

*

Before the last guest had even arrived, the garden was already loud and too full.

My dad's friends — the Monaco wine-and-golf types who all seemed to wear the exact same loafers and linen shirts — had claimed the sofas on the decking, beers already in hand, laughing at whatever story my dad was telling. Oscar had claimed a corner chair (to go unnoticed, no doubt) but now had half of Monaco's  old-lady social circle orbiting him. Marco and Pecco were wedged politely among them, both nodding like bobbleheads, trying so hard to blend that it looked painful. Every time someone passed them another can they said grazie three times too many. Out on the grass, Lando and Carlos had produced a football from god knows where and were now in a heated competition to see who could keep it up the longest.

Somewhere along the way, my dad had asked me about Charles. "Where is he? I could've sworn I invited him. Why isn't he here?"

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the grill. "He's busy," I said, and my dad bought it without further question.

Well, anyway.

I had bigger matters to attend to.

Vis-à-vis — my territory: The grilling corner.

I'd staked it out early and barricaded myself in properly; Three tables flanked me, set up in a U-shape like fortress walls. On the first: trays stacked with burger patties in neat rows, chicken marinating in three different tubs (herb, spicy, lemon-garlic), skewers of vegetables wrapped in clingfilm, and a lot of sausages. A lot. The second was condiments: multiple bottles of mustards, ketchups, hot sauces, mayos, oils, and spice jars I'd raided from the cupboard, lined up neatly in order.

The third table was my favourite: The Burger Assembly Conveyer Belt.

Buns ready-sliced, sliced cheeses stacked in towers, lettuce washed and layered in a colander, onions in two bowls (raw rings in one, caramelised in the other), tomato slices, the six different types of pickles lined up in glass ramekins.