Page 91 of Kings Don't Break
“Thank you for having us over,” I say in my most pleasant tone.
He hacks out a cough. “Yeah, whatever. You think I don’t know you dragged him here? He ain’t wanna be here. He ain’t been here for years.”
“You shouldn’t wonder why,” Blake snaps, his teeth gritted.
“Mouthing off ’cuz you think you’re some big shot. ’Cuz them tables have turned, eh? You’re a man now and your father’s in a chair—you think that makes you better?”
“Bill.”
Mrs. Cash returns clutching a casserole dish. Her tone’s stern but still deferential. Almost a tone I’d take with Ken if I were ever bold enough to scold him. She sets the casserole dish down in the middle of the table and mentions she worked on it all afternoon.
“John Wayne casserole,” she announces with a rare proud smile. “You remember, Blake.”
“Yeah, how shitty it was,” Blake mutters under his breath, so quietly, only I hear him.
But as we each take a plate and pile some of the casserole on, I discover Blake’s right. The casserole tastes like dog food—mushy veggies with grainy ground beef and gooey cheddar cheese that somehow makes it taste even worse.
I’m barely able to get a few polite forkfuls down before I have to stop altogether and focus on drinking the iced tea that’s been provided.
To her credit, Mrs. Cash attempts keeping things civil. She talks about the recipe she’s used for her casserole and then rambles on about how there’s yard work that needs to get done. The hint being that she’d like Blake to do it.
When that falls on deaf ears, she goes into asking me questions.
“Didn’t realize you were back in town,” she says. “Well, not ’til I found out your husband is a police officer for Pulsboro PD.”
A beat of uncertain silence follows, where I’m lost about how to even reply. The sour expression on Mrs. Cash’s face tells me her comment was a slight. I am—I was—a married woman, who’s currently attending this dinner with her son.
I set down my glass of iced tea and answer with calm indifference. “He is a police officer. However, we’re no longer together.”
“I bet.” She flashes plaque-riddled, stained teeth in what’s supposed to be a smile.
“It’s none of your business. Don’t speak on it,” Blake grits out.
“None of my business? You’re in my home.”
“That can easily be fixed. I didn’t want to be here.”
“See,” Bill grunts. “Still the same disrespectful shithead he’s always been. Told you, Martha. Shouldn’t have even bothered inviting him. He doesn’t give a fuck about anybody but himself.” The bitter man turns to me, one of his eyes bulging larger than the other. “You know what he did? Do you really know? Or did he tell you the clean version?”
Martha’s brows knit and she warbles out, “Bill?—”
“Shut up,” he snaps. He’s focused on me. His attention the kind that’s unnerving. “Did my dear ol’ son tell you all about how he ruined my life? I’m in this chair ’cuz of him!”
“ENOUGH!” Blake roars, rising to his feet. Strands of hair have begun to slip from his ponytail and his face reddens with anger. His neck thickens, each swallow a hard bob of his Adam’s apple. “I don’t need this shit. I never wanted to come here. I’d be fine if I never spoke to you people another day in my life!”
“Then get the fuck out!” Bill yells, spittle flying. “Just like I told you when you were sixteen. Good for nothing piece of shit you are!”
My heart’s pounding fast as the scene explodes before me. The animosity between the father and son chokes the air, making it impossible to breathe. I stand at Blake’s side. My hand goes for his, but he denies me. He’s rounding on his heel and striding for the door.
I don’t bother addressing Mr. and Mrs. Cash as I hurry after him.
The screen door flaps shut in my face. Blake’s strode so far ahead of me, the door shut before I could reach him. I sprint across the lawn and then the empty street to catch up.
The pulse of rage has followed Blake from inside the house to outside. He flings open the door to his truck and jumps in almost as if he’s forgotten I’m with him.
“Blake!” I pant. I scramble to climb into the passenger side. “Wait.”
He sits for a moment, scarily silent, processing what just happened. Then he slams his palm into his steering wheel. Once isn’t enough and he goes back for seconds and thirds ’til he’s grunting and the horn gives a bleat.
