Page 34 of Heated
“Deal.”
Triumph and relief sing through me.
But underneath?
Underneath is a thin but very distinct vein of foreboding that this arrangement is going to change everything. My careful plans. My life. Me.
Then again, I don’t believe in superstitions.
Everything’s going to be just fine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ZORA
“Hey, I’m here! Where is everyone?”
I close the door to my childhood home behind me, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it up in the hall closet. It’s still September, and in the midafternoon, the temperature is in the midsixties. It’s perfect sweater weather, and by all rights, I should be good rocking one outside and inside. But my father keeps it at a firm eighty degrees in the house all year round; he has since we were kids. Just another topic he and my mother have argued about for the past thirty-plus years. According to her, heat is nothing but a waste of money.
Personally, I think it’s his way of reminding his kids what awaits us in the afterlife if we don’t get our shit together. And by “get our shit together,” I mean obey God’s commandmentsandhis. And Reginald “Reggie” Nelson has a hell of a lot more commandments than God’s ten.
“In the kitchen,” Mom calls out.
Sighing, I shut the door but don’t immediately head down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. I pause and conduct a mental survey.
Hair up in a neat bun as if I didn’t have a chance to take it down after coming from church today. Didn’t go to church, but it’s all about the appearance.
Burnt-orange, wide-legged romper that’s stylish enough to satisfy my mother’s pride in knowing she raised a daughter who isn’t ashamed of the curves God blessed her with. And modest enough to appease the father who believes God wants only your future husband to appreciate and see aforementioned curves. It’s a careful and sometimes treacherous tightrope I have to balance. Thanks to experience and painful—and very loud—mishaps, I mostly nail it. Hopefully, I did today too.
Loosing a sigh, I step forward, and the brush of metal against my neck draws me up short.
“Dammit.”
Hurriedly, I remove the long dangling gold earrings from my lobes and tuck them into the pockets of my romper. How could I have been so careless? Just the sight of those could’ve caused an immediate argument between my parents. An old-as-Methuselah argument but one that hasn’t lost its lasting power or venom.
And the blame for it can be placed squarely at my feet. Just because I wanted to get my ears pierced when I was twelve since it’d seemed like I was the only person in my seventh-grade class who still possessed virgin lobes. Mom had been all for it, but Dad? Hell no. And he had scripture to back his decision up; he always did. But Mom didn’t let that stop her.
One day after school, she hustled me over to the mall, led me into the jewelry store, and convinced me it would be okay to get my ears pierced. I was twelve, dying not to be different from the other girls in my class, and since my mother said it was okay, well, I went with it. And I loved the little silver balls in my ears.Lovedthem ... until I arrived home and Dad hit the proverbial roof.
That argument had been so bad I’d gone to bed and hadn’t been able to leave it for a couple of days. I’d been sick to my stomach, throwing up, shaking. Not just because of my father’s rage and the ferocity of their battle. But because of the knowledge that my mother had used me as a pawn in their ongoing war. I’d been a weapon to get at him, toone-up him. That had been devastating for me. And it’d taught me a valuable lesson.
Never give my parents ammo.
Never give them the opportunity for me tobetheir ammo.
So now, even eighteen years later, I wear discreet small earrings to family dinners so my mother doesn’t feel like I’m surrendering to my father’s demands, and my father can pretend they don’t exist.
See? Careful balance.
Not trusting my memory, I turn, peering into the hall mirror and giving myself another quick scan. Patting my top bun, I nod. I’m good.
Seconds later, I enter the kitchen and find the rest of my family there. Surprise whispers through me. As soon as Levi, Miriam, and I hit eighteen, we all went to college and never returned home. It’s become somewhat of a game for us to see who can arrive the latest to these dinners where, thankfully, Mom and Dad require our presence only once every two or three months.
Looks like I win this time.
My prize? Less time in the splash zone.
“Hey,” I greet them, passing the table, where Miriam perches on a chair. She wrinkles her nose, and my stomach clenches. God, that could mean anything, but one thing for certain. Mom and Dad have already been into it. Turning up the wattage of my smile, I cross over to the stove, where Mom stirs a pot, and kiss her cheek. Even the heavenly smell emanating from it isn’t enough to uncoil the knot tightening further in my belly. “Hey, Mom. Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing.”
