“All in good fun, right, babe?” He winks at me, like I’m in on his joke, and turns his attention to his dad, who is staring daggers at him. “No. Not in good fun,” Bash says. “That was plain rude.” Tripp scoffs and waves him off. “It was a joke. I just meant save some room for dinner. Don’t make it into something else.” I shift away from Tripp, not liking the version of him that comes out to play around his family. It was rude. And manipulative. An unwelcome commentary on what and how much I’m eating disguised as a joke—a tactic my dad employed masterfully when I was younger.
