Page 12 of Left-Hand Larceny

Mom cups my cheeks, looking deep into my eyes. She presses a kiss to my forehead and sweeps some hair off my cheek as Dad ambles into the dining room. He’s still dressed from the office, khaki pants, button-up shirt, sweater vest he’s probably hadsince the nineties. The same outfit he wears to his practice every single day, even if he’s going to swap it out for scrubs and a lab coat. My mom is in a pencil skirt and crisp button up. It’s the end of the day and she still looks neatly pressed, as if she never once had to sit down, or eat a meal, or break a sweat. I don’t think I’d make it out the front door that put together. Definitely not to the end of the day.

I’m still in my faded black leggings and my team hoodie. My braid has mostly given up the good fight, the single elastic holding on for dear life as my dark hair falls around my shoulders. It makes sense. I spend most of my day in the weight room, on the team bench, or in Greg’s office. It doesn’t bother me, being comfortable, especially when surrounded by athletes also in athletic gear. But now I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt, and tuck some loose hair behind my ears.

“You could make time, if you want to,” my mom says as we all take a seat, and she passes the ceramic bowl of perfectly steamed green beans to my father.

“To what?” Dad asks, passing the bowl over to me.

“Date.” She turns to me, eyes twinkling, “I saw Marcia the other day. She said Christian was asking about you.”

I force a smile.

“He’s done so well for himself. A real good head on his shoulders.” She nods at me and dad, looking for agreement.

“What’s he up to now?” Dad asks. “It’s been a while.”

Years. It’s been two years since I broke things off with Christian Johnathon Taylor. Two years since I pulled on my big-girl panties and showed him the door. Even knowing there went my beautiful, light-filled apartment with the oversized windows and the living room fireplace—no, it didn’t work, but it was still gorgeous—because I couldn’t afford rent on my own. Not with school. Now I probably could, but that apartment, the one I made my own, it's long gone.

It was my parents who helped me with first and last for that place. When everything fell apart, they didn’t ask questions, just showed up with cardboard boxes and masking tape. To this day, they still think we just drifted apart. And I wasn’t volunteering any background information. Not when I was focused on getting out of that building. Seriously. I dropped Christian off at the airport for a week-long conference in Toronto, and I bailed. Probably before his plane even taxied to the runway.

At the time, I was grateful for my parents’ silence, for not having to explain why I’d run from a man who looked picture-perfect on paper. Now… now sometimes I wish they’d wanted to know, or that I’d felt brave enough to tell them the real reason I bolted. The real reason my blood runs cold when I hear his name. It’s one thing to know, in theory, that I don’t owe anyone an explanation. It’s quite another to have to tell my mother that the son of her oldest friend, the boy who grew up and followed in my dad’s footsteps to medical school. Who works at the same hospital, broke me. In more ways than one. The internal shame—no matter how unwarranted—is hard to shake.Easier to pretend he no longer exists.

“Didn’t he just get some clinical trial started?” Mom asks, and another wave of guilt crashes over me. Because it’s not a competition, it’s not, and I didn’t go to medical school, and I don’t want to be published in scientific journals, but I don’t like the idea that his life is more together than mine. That he might be succeeding while I feel like I’m barely treading water. I also know my parents would have loved for me to follow them into the traditional medical field. To take a job alongside them. Dr. Jones, Dr. Jones, and Dr. Jones, fixing the world one patient at a time while dressed in perfectly pressed cotton.

“He did!” Dad says. “He was always such a smart kid.”

“Handsome too.” Mom winks at me and I school my expression into calm, unaffected neutrality.

Because, of course that asshole is doing great things. And of course, my parents still love him. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m balanced on a tightrope suspended above Niagara Falls. The balance is precarious, and one misstep will send me crashing down into the churning water below. And my imminent death.

It’s a different field, I remind myself. I might not like the job, but my coworkers are great.

To be fair, Christian’s coworkers might also be fantastic, but he is the worst, so they’ll be suffering, anyway. Poor them.

“How was work today, Dad?” I’m desperate to change the subject. Or at least get it off of Christian. Or me.

“It was a good one. Sixty-forty split.” He means more good news than bad. Those are always the good days. He’s been giving me his day in ratios since I was a kid. Even before I fully understood what it meant and didn’t want to ask for an explanation.“You?”

“Eighty-twenty.” I grin.

“Sit up straight, Sadie. Elbows off the table.” I comply out of habit and mom gives me a soft smile.

Dad passes me a serving dish and I swallow thickly at the sight of the pink slabs of salmon. My mom is a superb cook. I know this. But I do not eat fish. I have never eaten fish.

I used to love fish sticks. Mom likes to remind me of that one, but yeah, those are breaded and fried and barely fish anymore after you drown them in ketchup.Ever take a bite of food and it’s just too… foodie? Yeah. That.

Grandma’s tuna macaroni salad was always your favorite, Dad says every time he makes the old recipe and I politely decline.

First, I didn’t know it was tuna—to be fair, they just called it “macaroni salad”—until I was almost ten. Second, I used to eat around the chunks of fish, anyway.

I force my lips into a smile and pull a piece onto my plate. I am only one person at this table. Mom spent a lot of time preparing a beautiful dinner. There’s no need to cause a fuss or hurt her feelings. Not when I can have a bowl of cereal once everyone heads to bed. Besides, it’s not like they willfully forget, right? They just forget I don’t eat fish.

“This looks amazing, Sandy,” Dad says, digging right in. I part my lips to breathe in through my mouth. I just cannot handle the smell. “How is school going, Sadie?”

I feel the heat climb my cheeks, grateful no one will notice it on my darker skin. It almost feels like the walls are pressing in around me, the wainscoting trying to suck the life out of my chest cavity. There’s nothing to worry about. My parents love me.

“Great,” I lie with a smile. “My advisor was thrilled with my preliminary report from the work I did with Ólaffson this off-season.”

The second part was true, at least.

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