His compliment steals my breath as we rejoin the rest of the holiday guests in the dining room.
“Speaking of cookies, I tried to order those pumpkin latte cookies before they were all gone back in October but had no luck.” Aunt Sheryl frowns at me.
“Mom told me, which is why I made some especially for you, Aunt Sheryl,” I tell her and nod toward the dessert table. “They’re in the tin at the corner of the table.”
She squeals a little bit in excitement. “I told Jaxson about these cookies, and he said he needed to see for himself how good they are.”
My smile drops at the mention of her son, who, until this very moment, has kept his distance. Unfortunately, right as my father brings the turkey out, Jaxson moves to my right side.
“Mama told me you have a little online business selling cookies.”
“Little?” I say, staring up at him.
Before he can respond, I feel Neil’s hand at the small of my back. I know it’s him without even looking because of the way my body warms up.
“We’re sitting on this side.” His hold on my waist firms. He pulls me toward the other side of the table and away from Jaxson and his mother.
While my other relatives and friends of my parents continue to talk amongst themselves, not noticing this exchange, I feel the tension in the air as Neil glares at Jaxson over my head.
I squeeze his arm, letting him know it’s all good. I could kill my mother for putting me in such an awkward situation. She knew I planned on bringing Neil to this dinner. We talked about it days ago. While I had picked up on some hesitance on her part, I thought it was because she hadn’t gotten to know Neil very well, at least, not outside of the parameters of his work.
She’d never seemed to have a problem before, but now, I couldn’t help but pick up on her reluctance. And the fact that she pointedly tried to get Jaxson and I alone earlier, in the kitchen, telling Neil that my father needed his help in the living room, was beyond disrespectful.
Aside from a few stares across the table from Jaxson, dinner goes well. My father’s turkey and ham are the talk of the table, as are my mother’s mac n’ cheese and my sweet potatoes.
“It was a family effort,” I say, laughing when one of my mother’s cousins goes on about how good everything is.
“I know that’s right. I sure miss those garlic mashed potatoes that Dierdre used to make,” that same cousin, who’s known for not having much of a filter, comments.
The air stills, and I turn my head to face the end of the table where my parents are sitting. My mother’s lips are pinched while my father sits there, staring down at his plate, still as a statue.
A quivering uneasiness arises in my belly. It’s the same feeling that happens whenever Deirdre’s mentioned in front of my parents. A warm feeling moves over my thigh, and I glance down to find Neil’s hand covering it. He squeezes my leg, gently reminding me that I’m not alone. Glancing up, I give him a small smile of appreciation. He’s the only person in my life, aside from Jackie, that I’ve talked about Dierdre to.
“Now, why would you go and bring her name up?” Aunt Sheryl chastises Denitra from across the table.
“What? I just said I missed the girl’s mashed potatoes.”
“Just hush. Jaxson, tell us about your new job.”
“Wait, why can’t we bring up Dierdre’s name? She’s a part of this family, too,” I say, finding bravery that I’d never had before.
The uncomfortable silence that ebbed into the room before now balloons as my mother’s slanted gaze fixates on me. Instead of backing down, I stare right back at her.
“Desiree, now is not the time,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Then, when is the time? Because it’s not like we’ve ever found time to bring her up in the three years since she overdosed.”
Someone at the far end of the table gasps. My mother abruptly stands, slamming her cloth napkin onto the table. “I believe the biscuits are done,” she says as an excuse to exit the room. She spins and pushes through the swinging door to enter the kitchen.
Feeling buoyed by something I can’t quite explain, I rise as well, tossing my napkin onto the table and make a beeline for the kitchen. Even when my father’s hand grips my wrist, trying to stop me, I pull away.
“Mom, what was that?” I demand entering the kitchen.
I’m ready for the stern glare she gives me when she turns away from the oven.
“Not now, Desiree.” She turns back to the oven, opening it and using the mitten on her hands to pull the second helping of biscuits out. “Can’t believe you tried to embarrass me like that.”
“How did I embarrass you?”
