Page 36 of Heated
“But it’s okay to disrespect our business? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” More spooning of stew.
I love my mother’s cooking, I do, but it’s just not that fucking good.
“Honor your father and your mother so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you,” my father growls.
“Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.”
“Levi, please,” I murmur, praying—and I do meanpraying—my brother hears the message in those two words.
If he doesn’t stop, I’m afraid Dad is going to go apoplectic ... well, more than he already is, and that won’t be good for any of us. I just want to get through this dinner with as little conflict as possible. The arguments, the sniping, the digs—they don’t affect Levi the same as me. Sometimes, he seems to thrive on it. Like just now. Especially withour dad. Miriam has always done what a glance beside me reveals she’s up to now. Staring across the room, a tiny wrinkle above her nose. She loses herself in her head in a world where none of us can reach her. I’ve always envied her of that ability—that gift.
But the peacemaker? She can’t escape. She has to remain on the battlefield, at her post. And suffer the physical consequences later.
“Dad.” After a tension-taut moment where he continues to glower at Levi, who once again is dining on his stew like it’s ambrosia, Dad drags his focus to me. “I’m sorry you felt you had to lie to your church member.” I ignore my brother’s snort. “That must’ve been uncomfortable for you.”
I’m sorry you can’t be proud of your children’s hard work, initiative, and success.
But the words remain trapped in my head because, hey. Peacemaker.
“I just don’t get why of all the businesses you three could’ve chosen to open, you decide on a breakup service, for God’s sake. It’s unheard of. And ridiculous. When people ask me what my children do for a living, I can’t even begin to explain it.”
“Not exactly unheard of. There are several companies like ours, but they don’t offer the level of services, packages, and amenities that we do. And it’s not ridiculous at all. If it were, we wouldn’t be in the black this year. There’s a need and a demand, and we supply,” Miriam says, sounding as if she’s reading from a financial journal.
Hell, I’m surprised she’s back from ... wherever to join the conversation.
“Oh, honey, I doubt if that’s true.” Mom goes so far as to pat her hand.
I’ve always wondered if she realizes how condescending she is toward Miriam. As if just because she’s a genius, she’s also void of common sense. It’s maddening. If Mom had her way, she would’ve prohibited Miriam from leaving the house, Bubble Wrapping her room and keeping her locked behind the door.
“She has an IQ of one hundred fifty-one and is a member of Mensa. I think I’m believing the genius,” Levi drawls.
“We get it.” I hold my hands up, the meal a heavy, congealed weight in my belly. Cold fingers scuttle down my spine, and a faint throb pulses above my right eye, portending a tension headache. “You don’t approve of our company.” How can we forget when it’s literally the only thing they agree on? “And if you choose not to tell your friends, congregation, or coworkers what we do, then fine. We wish you supported us, but we can’t force you. But can we table your disapproval and moral outrage for now? At least until our next dinner? If we don’t, we might not have anything to talk about.”
My father’s mouth thins, and Mom’s chin jerks back toward her neck. I glance across the table, and though his expression remains impassive, Levi is my twin, and I can read that look.
And you talk about my sarcasm?
Oh, shut up.
He sniffs and spoons up more stew.
I’m asking Mom to box up my leftovers and give them to him.
“There was no need for that much tone, young lady,” Mom says. After pushing back her chair, she picks up her bowl and rounds the table to grab Dad’s and then walks toward the kitchen. That’s how I know we’ve pissed her off. She’s being polite to Dad. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you three tonight.”
You.The word ricochets off my skull like a pinball.You and Dad pretending like you don’t recognize why we opened BURNED in the first place. You two acting like you don’t have any ownership in who we are and our decisions.
But ... peacemaker.
And the peacemaker never misses a good opportunity to shut up. Especially when the crisis appears to be averted. Even if it’s left her emotionally bruised and exhausted.
Just as I reach for my glass of wine, my cell phone vibrates against my hip. I startle, my elbow hitting the table. Frowning, I slip my hand under the table and into my pocket. It’s Sunday. Who would be texting me? Unless Deanna thought of something important and decided to message me so it would be the first thing on our minds Monday morning. She’s done that before.
“No phones at the dinner table, Zora. You know the rules,” Dad reminds me.
Too late. I’ve already slid the cell free and peeked down at the screen.
MNBM.
