Page 157 of Burn Bright
“So specific,” Charlie mutters dryly.
“What does it matter?” I shrug at them. “I made sure my will is updated.”
That isn’t all I did.
Heaviness falls over the room, so thick it’s suffocating. Audrey is wide-eyed withfear.I’m not following.
“Can someone fill me in please?” I ask, alarm seeping into my bloodstream. It’s taking everything to stay in my chair.
Mom is caging so much breath, her collarbones are protruding. “Ben,” she manages to say, but cuts her icy gaze to our dad to finish.
“We’re here for you. Always,” Dad says, then addresses me with my siblings. “All seven of you are extensions of myself and Rose, and it’s impossible for me not to love each one.” I must be the weakest extension then. I don’t say it. I just swallow hard while his deep blue eyes return to mine. “And I’d hope you’d feel like you can come to us at any point. Even if what you’re dealing with are emotions too deep.”
I nod stiffly, realizing where this is going. “I updated my will,” I say in a tight breath. “I didn’t write a suicide note that night.I’m okay.”
“You weren’t contemplating it?” Mom asks outright. “Because if you still feel?—”
“I wasn’t and I’mnot,” I say strongly, being gravely honest. “I appreciate the worry, I do.”Don’t fucking cry.“I love that you care enough about me to push, even when it’s aggravating, but I’m okay. And honestly, I’d rather just enjoy this dinner. It might be one of the last with Beckett for a while, and can we not make it all about me?”
That does the trick.
They all voice their love of me in their own way, and Mom reiterates she’s happy I’m here tonight. I’m not relaxed, honestly.
Then Eliot toasts, “To Wednesdays.” We all lift our glasses. He takes a dramatic, serious pause. “Which should always revolve around me.” He’s the only one who drinks, and I start laughing, which causes the whole table to follow. Mirth spreads like a contagion.
I love you, Eliot.He winks at me before he slouches backward.
Everyone begins to dig into the cranberries, roasted potatoes, carrots, as forks clatter and dishes clink. Mom rises with her wine. “This concludes opening remarks.” She sips. “Now the game truly begins.”
Jane unfurls a notebook and clicks her sparkly pen.
The second half of dinner—the literal game portion—I tend not to speak as much, but I’m always engaged.
Like now, I listen as Beckett tees off the first question. “Which Greek god is associated with a gentle spring breeze?”
I know this one.“Zephyrus,” Charlie says almost as soon as Beckett stops speaking.
He’s right, of course. Charlie never answers incorrectly. Sure, he’s been stumped before, usually by our mom or dad, but if he speaks, it’s with unwavering confidence and he’s never wrong.
No phones are out, not even slyly hidden under the table. Cheating will have you immediately banished from the diningroom. Unable to finish your meal or participate. When we were kids, Tom risked many nights without dinner just to see if he could outwit our dad using the internet, but it never worked.
He was caught pretty early on each time. I could practically hear his stomach growling as he left. I doubt he hated missing out on the food more than being with all of us. Because Eliot would always sneak him leftovers.
So right now, my siblings and parents are spouting off trivia questionswithoutreference material. You have to come prepared. Anyone can ask anything, but asking means you lose the chance to gain a point. First to ten wins. It’s been this way since before I was born. Our parents never went easy and let us win, even when Audrey sobbed that all she wanted for her seventh birthday was to be the Wednesday Night Dinner champion.
“You have to earn it yourself, ma petite,” our dad told her sweetly. “It can’t be handed to you.”
Up until Charlie turned fourteen, our mom and dad were always the victors. The night he finally beat them, my siblings and I all jumped out of chairs and roared with so much exhilaration, my voice went hoarse. We bounced up and down. Eliot threw a plate. We cheered like the Eagles won the fucking Super Bowl, and to us, it was like our chosen Gladiator finally took down the mightiest of opponents.
And Charlie looked so happy—the happiest I’d ever seen him, maybe in my entire life, was that night.
“It is four points to Charlie,” Jane calls out the current score. “Four to Dad, three to Mom, two to me, and one to Eliot.” She taps her notebook with the pen. “And proceed.”
“What did Prometheus steal from the gods?!” Audrey shouts quickly to slip her question into the mix.
“Fire,” too many people say at once. No one shares points, so the question is tossed. Still, this might end up being a shortgame since the theme is Classical Mythology. They know I have an exam soon, and this wouldn’t be the first time a Wednesday Night Dinner is constructed to help one of us study.
Audrey slumps.
