Page 12 of Kings Don't Break
I’m busy stirring the bubbling pot at the stove so I don’t get to reply in time. Ken beats me to it, aiming a pitying look in Mama’s direction.
“You sit and look pretty, Sunny. I’ll get the door.”
Mama winks at me the moment Ken zips out the room. “You chose well, baby. A real winner.”
I hum as an answer. My energy’s depleted from the long day, and if this dinner’s going to be a success, I need to put on a good show. I need to impress Captain Vargas and Lieutenant Gillard. Dinner might not be the special rump roast that was requested, but my butter chicken is one of my secret weapons—no one alive who has ever tasted it walked away dissatisfied.
I add a pinch more red chili powder and then taste test the sauce.
Almost perfect.
But still not good enough.
I’ve been poring over the stove, making sure everything’s just right to the point I’ve forgotten to get ready.
Ken reminds me. He calls out from the front of the house.
“Kor, come say hello to the captain and lieutenant when you’re able!”
The coded message lights a fire under my ass. I stir the sauce a few more times, turn down the heat, and then ask Mama to watch the stove.
“Don’t touch,” I warn.
She waves me off. “Chile, please. Have you forgotten who’s the mama and who’s the daughter? I cooked every meal of yours your whole life!”
That was then. This is now.
I refrain from pointing that out as I race upstairs to go change. Not even ten minutes later, I’m hurtling back down the stairs in a simple turtle-necked sweater dress and my curls framing my face. It’s not until I walk into the den that my heart skips a beat at my mistake.
It’s in Ken’s eyes. The subtle way they flash with disapproval.
I quickly stroke my hair that was supposed to be elegantly pinned up as I beam wide at the two men in our company.
“Hello, it’s so nice to meet you.”
“Stricklin, you didn’t tell us your wife was a sweet little thing,” says Lieutenant Gillard. “Where’d you luck out with one like this?”
“Yeah, is there a store where you buy ’em?” Captain Vargas gives a deep laugh, his protruding belly and white beard making him resemble a Santa Claus with tan skin. “If so, can I return my wife without a receipt and pick up a new one?”
The three men share in more laughter at the joke. I stand by and keep smiling, waiting out the moment.
Ken places a hand on the small of my back. “Wait ’til you taste her cooking. Best you’ll ever have.”
“Well damn, Stricklin. Don’t hold out on us!” cries out Gillard. “Lead the way!”
Fifteen minutes later, they’re seated around the table in the formal dining room. I’m bustling to and from the kitchen like a waitress at a restaurant, carrying in the hot dishes and pouring drinks. Mama offers several times to help only for me to decline.
I’m supposed to work alone.
“Darling, have a seat,” Gillard says after I’ve made my fifth trip. He looks across the table at Ken. “Stricklin, you’re overworking your poor wife. Is this how you’ll run the station?”
Ken sits up straighter than he already is—which is already damn near perfect posture. “Of course not! Korine, sit. You got our company thinking you can’t enjoy your meal.”
I’d short-circuit if I wasn’t used to the contradiction.
One moment I’m working too hard. The next, not hard enough.
I stopped trying to make sense of it years ago…
