The Anatomy of a Broken Heart //Completed//

33. Caleb

Dad wanted to talk about something important. Could it be that he had already figured out Farrah and I had broken up? Whatever it was, it could wait forever. I never looked forward to chats with dad. These scheduled father/son moments were so synthetic; we were like an off brand Brady Bunch minus the six kids and weird semi-incestuous vibes. Not unless you counted Uncle Jack and the way he always liked to pat my cousin Amy's butt when he said hello to her. This whole family was a disaster. No one would know, if they didn't look too closely, which is what mom made sure didn't happen. She threw these lavish parties and fundraisers and made sure we all dressed up to the nines and put on our best smiles all the while she cracked beneath the varnish. And I played along because it was important. And Saturday was just as important. I only hoped mom's head didn't implode when she saw that the girl on my arm that night would be Santana and not Farrah.

"Hey, mom," I said when I walked into the dining room where she'd laid out an assortment of plates and silverware, pieces of paper, and even random pieces of fabric that all amount to a bunch of nothing in my mind. My confusion was short lived when nanny walked in carrying a tray of different kinds of food, informing my mother that they were the samples for Saturday's party. When I reached out to take what looked like a piece of toast with something cheesy on it, Nanny promptly slapped my hand away, chastising me.
"But I want to have some input on Saturday's menu!" I pouted, hoping she'd relent. No dice.

"You can have an input on which table settings to use." Mom looked at me from above her glasses.

"Yeah. I think I'd serve you all best far away from the fine china."

"Well then, you could at least help me with the invitations. All you have to do is address them and stamp them and mail them. You know how much I love your pretty penmanship."

"Can't we just send, like, an evite?"

"No, we can't 'just send like an evite,' Caleb. That's tacky. Now, which parchment do you think would be best and what ink should we use?"

It was times like this I wish I'd had a sister. Nanny never did let me taste test the hors d'oeuvres.

After two hours of writing, and a self-diagnosis of severe carpel tunnel syndrome, dad came home and we had dinner. We sat in silence, the only sound coming from the scraping of our knives and the clinking of our forks hitting the dinner plates, until dad cleared his throat and looked at me.

"Well, son."

I looked up at him, mouth full of steak, and blinked. He stared back with an unreadable look on his face until I swallowed hard.

"Well dad." I could feel a lump in my throat where the food had jammed, so I took a gulp of water, hoping he'd say something else.

"I haven't seen Farrah at the house lately."

Mom looked up at me at that and my heart sank to my stomach. "Uh, yeah. We've both been busy with school work. You know beginning of the year is always busy."

"You haven't been too busy for that girl," dad retorted.

"Girl? What girl?" Mom was looking between me and dad, her eyes shifting from one face to the other in confusion.

"Caleb? Tell your mother about your new found friendship with Miss Valencia."

"Who is this girl, Caleb?"

"Just a friend from school." My eyes stayed steady on my hands, and I didn't dare look at my mom for fear she'd blind me with the fire I knew was burning in her eyes.

"Is that why she was here earlier? Or why you took her to my practice?"

"What?" Mom's voice echoed through the dining room.