My parents are out of their freaking minds. Just the fact that they named me after a season I wasnât born in is enough evidence on its own, but thereâs more.
Right now, weâre in London for the grand opening of Dadâs first international restaurant, and heâs using an awful faux British accent while speaking to the owner of the five-star hotel itâs in.
And Mom, for reasons I will never understand, thinks itâs funny. Sheâs doubled over, cracking up and shaking her head all lovingly like she didnât marry the worldâs goofiest, most embarrassing guy.
I meet Aunt Zoeâs eyes, and we roll them together. âHeâs been doing that since you were a fetus,â she deadpans.
Gross.
âExcited for your dad, Autumn?â Uncle Steven asks.
Heâs the only normal one in my entire family. I guess he and my aunts arenât technically family, but Iâve been calling them that forever.
I thought I was related to Aunt Zoe, Aunt Court, and Uncle Brady for the longest time, but apparently, theyâre just really good friends with my parents.
Somehow, that makes them relatives. Like I said, Logan and Rachel Quincy are total weirdos.
Even though my aunts and uncles all live further away than my blood relatives, who are one state over in boring-ass Utah, I see my faux-family way more often.
Nana has been in an assisted living facility for pretty much my entire life, and Dad hates it, so Iâve only met her a handful of times.
My parents had a falling out with Momâs family around the time I was born, and they only mended their relationship a couple years ago.
Grandma, Grandpa, and Uncle Miles, whoâs my only ~actual~ uncle, are old-fashioned and low-key sexist.
My parentsâespecially Mom, I thinkâdidnât want them to have a bad influence on me, which is kind of funny, since Iâm just as stubborn as my godmothers.
No chance those nutters could ever convince me to be a docile housewife, but we still donât swing by Utah for the grandparents all that often.
Meanwhile, Aunt Zoe shows up at our door every couple of months, Uncle Brady hosts practically every holiday, and Aunt Court buys me plane tickets so I can babysit her kids, my faux-cousins Zach and Emilia.
No complaints here. I kind of like the whole hand-picked family thing my parents went with.
Turning back to my uncle, I reply, âYeah, he let me taste-test everything on the menu.â
Exploring museums with Mom and sampling my dadâs gourmet cooking for a week in London was the best spring break ever. I admitted that to Dad a couple of days ago, and he wonât let me forget it.
âAny recommendations?â Uncle Steven asks.
To be honest, I canât remember what any of the foods are called. Dad hired someone from Momâs marketing agency to name everything. Half the menu is in French.
The rest is in Italian and what Iâm convinced is just jumbles of letters and apostrophes.
âThe pastas are pretty good,â I say. There are, like, nine different pasta dishes, but I couldnât tell you what a single one is called.
My favorite tastes and looks like pad Thai but is, of course, not named pad Thai. Iâm pretty sure its name is as long as its ingredients list.
I told Mom she should fire the person who designed the menu, but she just said to talk to Shawn, her friend and the CEO (also a total DILF).
Because sheâs in charge of photography, not the idiots in branding, who are all based out of the New York office anyway.
She didnât call them idiotsâMomâs ~way~ too nice for thatâbut anyone who thinks âFrench onion soupâ should be translated into Italian isnât the brightest bulb if you ask me.
The room goes silent as Dad taps the microphone. I hold my breath. If he starts with the accent again, Iâm going back home to Denver on the first available flight.
I think I could probably convince Aunt Zoe to come with me, even though she and Uncle Steven live in Portland with, like, fifty dogs.
âThank you all for coming to the grand opening of A.L.R. Bistro London.
âI wanted to give my remarks in a British accent, but my daughter, the âAâ in A.L.R., threatened to disown me as a father, and at this point, Iâm too attached to risk it.â
If the entire freaking room werenât staring at me, I would be opening my flight app right now.
âI have many people to thank for making A.L.R. London possible, but I promise Iâll go as quickly as possible so we can get to the part weâre all waiting for, appetizers.â
Everyone laughs even though Dad isnât joking; food ~is~ the only thing most of these people care about.
âMy head chef, Bridget Ramiro, and the over one thousand talented individuals who work with her deserve a tremendous thank you. Martin Lewis, who heads up A.L.R. Internationalâ¦â
I zone out until I hear Momâs name.
âI owe my darling wife, Rae Quincy, the biggest thank you of all. Without Raeâs encouragement to make my culinary dreams a reality, I would probably still be working in finance.
âWhen I first set out to accomplish my goal of opening a restaurant, I signed up for classes in culinary arts that began a few weeks after our daughter was born.
âI donât need to tell all the parents here what a terrible idea that was.â
Apparently, I was an awful baby who didnât learn to sleep until I was one. Dadâs still teasing me about it nineteen years later. Mom, of course, thinks itâs funny. Still. Iâm pretty sure itâs the reason I donât have any siblings.
My bad.
âRae overheard me withdrawing from my classes. Before I could confirm with the administrator, she pried the phone from my hands and demanded that they keep me enrolled.
âA year later, the first A.L.R. Bistro opened up in Salt Lake City, Utah. You can also credit Rae for the restaurantâs name. She threatened to file for divorce if I went with my original idea, Quincy Kitchen.â
I have to give Mom props on that one. âQuincy Kitchenâ is terrible.
âFinally, I owe a thank you to my official taste-tester and daughter, Autumn, whoâs suffered through all the concoctions that did not make it to the final menu.
âAutumn is heading into her second year as an interior design student at the Pratt Institute. Sheâs the mastermind behind A.L.R. Londonâs unique layout and décor.â
Iâll forgive Dadâs British accent for the shoutout. Who knows, maybe some of the fancy guests work in the field and need interior design interns.
I wouldnât say no to a London internship. I mean, I probably wouldnât say no to ~any~ internship, but I wouldnât even have to think about a European one.
âAnd with that, I say, âChip, chip, cheerio!â Letâs get to the first course.â
I should have known he wouldnât last an entire speech without embarrassing himself. I roll my eyes as my parents walk hand-in-hand to my table, ready to call me on my bluff to disown Dad.
As ridiculous as they are, Iâm kind of attached too.
âEnd of Book Oneâ