Arrow Arcades family Reunion (Arrows and Arcade Book 2)

Mary Kate stared at the overflowing laundry basket, a metaphorical Everest of anxieties piled high beside it. The floral pattern on her paisley pajamas seemed to mock her with its cheerful obliviousness. Outside, the muted autumnal light filtered through the grimy window of her apartment, illuminating the chaotic landscape of theatrical props, half-written scripts, and costume remnants strewn across the floor. It was a perfect reflection of her internal state: a glorious, glorious mess.

The Cov-erup69 reunion loomed. It wasn’t just a family gathering; it was a potential supernova of dysfunctional personalities, clashing ideologies, and enough passive-aggressive comments to fuel a small war. And Mary Kate, queen of the dramatic monologue and champion of the internal scream, was at the epicenter.

Her generalized anxiety disorder, a faithful companion for as long as she could remember, was throwing a pre-reunion party in her brain. The usual suspects were all there: the relentless worry hamster wheel, the what-if catastrophiser, and the ever-present voice of self-doubt, whispering insidious lies in a stage-whisper. This wasn’t just any family reunion; it was happening during Cov-erup69, that delightfully named pandemic that had everyone either hoarding toilet paper or developing a newfound appreciation for sourdough bread.
The thought of navigating her family’s diverse and often volatile personalities while simultaneously practicing social distancing protocols felt like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded while riding a unicycle. Her meticulously crafted mental checklists, designed to help her navigate the treacherous waters of family interaction, were dissolving into a puddle of anxious sweat.
Her phone buzzed – a text from her Aunt Mildred, a woman whose obsession with Mexico bordered on the pathological. The message was a single, frantic emoji: 😱 This was not a good sign. Mary Kate’s anxiety spiked, a sudden jolt of adrenaline that made her heart pound like a frantic hummingbird. She scrolled through past texts, searching for clues, like a literary Sherlock Holmes of family dysfunction. Each emoji, each misspelled word, was a potential landmine in the minefield of her family.

She needed a plan, a strategy, a goddamn theatrical production plan to conquer this familial onslaught. First, she needed to calm herself, a task as monumental as scaling Mount Everest in flip-flops. Deep breaths, she told herself, channeling her inner yoga instructor. In through the nose, out through the mouth. But her mind was a hyperactive monkey swinging from branch to branch of impending doom.
Next, she needed to mentally rehearse the potential scenarios. The wealthy socialite Aunt Mildred, with her unwavering belief that everyone should speak fluent Spanish and embrace tequila sunrises. Her recovering heroin addict sister, Brenda, a registered nurse who, ironically, had better bedside manner with her intravenous drip than with most human beings. Her brother-in-law, a former NASCAR driver whose wife, a free-spirited flower child, seemed to operate on a different plane of reality altogether. And let’s not forget her bible-thumping foster parents, whose unwavering faith was only matched by their judgmental glares. The sheer volume of potential conflicts was enough to send even the most seasoned therapist scrambling for their happy pills.