Page 23 of High Density

Pa reaches out a hand to put on Ma’s arm, but it’s too late, she’s already on her feet, reaching for her plate, and slamming it down so hard it breaks apart in pieces and sends shards of china flying.

“Ma!” I yell, trying to pull Janey out of the way.

Ma has a temper that doesn’t show itself often. Silence is her tell when she’s angry, but when she’s hurt, her temper flares.

“Enough!”

My father’s bark has Ma spinning on her heel and taking off for the back door. Then he turns his eyes on Una, who looks like she’s about to cry. He slowly shakes his head.

“There are better ways, baby girl, and you know it,” he scolds her gently. “Could’a been a happy occasion for everyone.”

Una looks like she’s been slapped. Then she turns to look at me, and I know she’s remembering all the times I tried to convince her our parents would be accepting. But the silent apology in her tearful eyes feels a little thin after the stunt she pulled tonight.

I grab Janey’s hand and pull her up with me.

“We’re leaving.”

“I’m sorry, Janey,” my sister mumbles.

“Not cool, Una. Not cool,” I manage to grind out before leading Janey to the door.

“Son…” my father calls after me and I stop to look over my shoulder. “Best let her cool down for a bit.”

I nod and walk outside, Janey beside me.

We’re silent the entire drive back to her place. It’s not until I turn off the engine and blow out a big breath that I break the silence, my eyes fixed on the reflection of the truck’s grill in her front window.

“I would never have put you in that situation, had I known. That was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

She chuckles softly beside me and reaches for my left hand, resting on the steering wheel.

“Hey, that’s family for ya,” she returns easily. “Trust me, my family has had our own share of scenes like that. Usually with me at the center of the drama.”

I turn to look at her. “I sincerely doubt that.”

It only makes her laugh harder.

“You have no idea,” she assures me. “When I was a teenager, my mother used to say I could get on Mother Theresa’s last nerve. She had to walk out of a room plenty of times.”

“Una is thirty,” I point out.

“Yeah, I know. But sometimes you get stuck in a family dynamic that is hard to get out of. People have certain expectations of you, you have expectations of them, and even though we all change over time, it can be easy to fall back into those old patterns.”

I have to think about that for a moment. It’s forcing me to look at myself with a critical eye, as much as I look at others in my family. I always kept my mouth shut, even growing up. Not that I was an angel by any stretch; I rebelled on my own time, got into trouble plenty, but I was quiet at home. Una provided all the drama we could handle. I still rarely speak up, and choose to wait for shit to blow over.

“You’re right.”

I turn my hand, palm up, lace my fingers with hers, and lift her hand to kiss her knuckles.

“I don’t think I can match your father’s poyha, but I can whip us up an omelet?” she suggests, changing the subject.

My intent had been to apologize for the disastrous family dinner and then make myself scarce, sure she would’ve had enough of the Watike clan for tonight. But maybe not.

“I only had two bites of my damn dinner,” I grumble, still pissed at my sister.

“Me too.” She grins. “I’m starving.”

Without waiting for my answer, she retrieves her hand and gets out of the truck.

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