Page 242 of Invisible Bars
Giselle lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a sip with an intensity that bordered on aggressive, almost as if the rich red liquid was an enemy she needed to conquer.
That’s when I saw it—the barely concealed hatred that Imanio and Dessign had warned me about. The way Giselle glowered at Chi, Renee, and Mama Rose was as if she wished she could wipe them from existence and rewrite the scene at the table in her own self-serving script.
And somehow, I just knew that was the appetizer.
“Hope your wine turns back into water!”I blurted, loud and sharp, my hand tapping the table twice before I even realized I was talking.
“I d-don’t!” I added hurriedly, sitting up straighter, as if an erect posture could somehow mitigate what I had just said.
Imanio’s hand found its way to my thigh beneath the table, offering a small, reassuring squeeze—a silent message that conveyed, “you’re good."
“Mmm. That baby there just might be the most honest one at this table," Mama Rose said, with the calm of a woman who’d seen generations fall apart and still made it to church on Sunday.
Imanio and his father remained stoic—they exchanged no glances, offered no reactions.
Dessign hid her grin behind her wine glass.
Then there was Chi.
“She’s coming for ya’, Giselle. I told you we should’ve brought popcorn, baby,” he relayed to Dessign, elbowing her playfully.
Renee chuckled, lifting her napkin like it was a praise fan.
“Well, if the Lord is still doing miracles, I got a few requests too,” she said. “I need my student loan balance erased. My knees restored to factory settings, and one man who ain’t allergic to commitment.”
Giselle cleared her throat, then set her glass down with too much grace to be anything but furious—her jaw tight enough to crack a diamond.
“Moving along,” she said, her tone now dipped in designer attitude, “I know the last dinner didn’t go as planned but tonight is about healing… starting fresh. And I’ve gone out of my way… literally… to make this one more... meaningful.”
I glanced down at my plate, trying to stay still. But the tension in the room was crawling up my spine like it had claws. I already knew I wasn’t gonna be able to keep my tics under wraps much longer.
Then Giselle clapped—light and pretentious—like she was summoning a string quartet instead of setting off a nuclear emotional bomb.
“Please bring in our other guests,” she instructed the butler.
My head snapped up.
Other guests?
Why did that sound like the start of a horror movie?
Everyone around the table looked confused… and suspicious. Me? I was already buzzing. My body picked up on the betrayal before my brain could put it into words. I didn’t do well with surprises… especially not new people. I needed mental prep, emotional armor, and a minute to breathe. But the butler returned way too fast. He stood tall at the archway and cleared his throat.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ali… and their daughter, Miss Chiamaka,” he announced.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali?
I spun around like my name had just been called on Judgment Day—and then I just stood there, breath stuck somewhere between fear and fury.
Standing in the doorway were two familiar faces I hadn’t laid eyes on in over a decade and one stranger who was all too new to me—my parents and my younger sister. They were adorned in vibrant traditional Nigerian attire, their richly patterned outfits showcasing the bright colors of their heritage. Their gazes swept across the room, wide eyes searching for familiarity in a space that felt alien to them.
Renee leaned forward, all curiosity and zero seasoning, and asked, “Giselle, who are these people?”
Chi lounged back in his chair, a mischievous grin on his face as if he were watching the best episode of a sitcom he didn’t know he was a part of.
“This feels like a deleted scene from 'Coming to America'. But hey, since no one has said it yet… welcome!”
My chair scraped back so hard it cried across the floor. I didn’t even feel myself stand up. It wasn’t their lighthearted jabs that set me off; those were the playful antics I had grown to love. The real source of my distress was Giselle—The Wicked Witch of Wine Nights, decked out in high-end designer clothing, her entitlement oozing from her every pore.
