"Really great," Ash added.
"The greatest," Linden said with a snicker.
My mother bustled into the room with my father in tow and set several platters on the table. My father glanced at the four of us, shook his head, and dropped into his usual seat. He motioned for Linden to pass the sausage. If I knew anything, it was that he'd eat, exit, and avoid the shit out of these hijinks for the rest of the evening.
"Dig in, everyone. I'll be back with the rice," my mother called.
We weren't horrible offspring for staying put. This was how my mother preferred it. She insisted on cooking and serving and she did it without any misplaced sense of duty. No, it was pure ego. She simply believed her food was better than that prepared by anyone else and she refused to eat—as she put it—"under-seasoned garbage." We didn't bother arguing over the matter anymore and we didn't dare insert ourselves into the preparations.
She'd stab any of us for doing it wrong.
The meal passed quickly, and I was damn thankful for that. We were too busy eating and praising my mother's food to engage in any common first date rituals. That, and my mother gave up liquor for Lent. She wasn't a practicing Catholic by most standards but she observed certain traditions to the letter. Giving up something for Lent, Advent candles in December, bringing my dog to church for a blessing on the Feast of Saint Roch. It seemed like a small connection to a faith she barely kept but couldn't do without, and I wasn't about to challenge that.
But a glass of wine would've helped a bitch out tonight, especially after my mother asked Troy how many children he wanted and what he thought of short engagements.
My brothers always came equipped with beer but they weren't sharing tonight.
Sometimes, they really were a-holes.
When we finished eating, my mother gestured to my brothers. "You're big, strong men. You can handle the dishes without your sister tonight."
Linden blinked at my mother before turning his gaze toward me. "We will collect on this debt at a later date," he said, pushing away from the table.
"Don't worry," I replied. "You will get your turn and I will cackle with glee as I wash those dishes and drink your beer."
Ash pressed his fist to his mouth as he snorted with laughter.
"I don't know what you think is so entertaining," I said, tossing a balled napkin in his direction. "You'll get your turn too."
"I will not," he replied. "Thanks, but I have no room for this bullshit in my life."
It was Linden's turn to throw a napkin at Ash. "Shut up," he barked. "You're on drying duty."
My siblings took their sweet time clearing the table while Troy and I traded uncomfortable smiles. They weren't smiles so much as eye crinkles and stiff lips, a tight, twisted expression that only certified the awkwardness of this setup.
When we were alone and I heard the sink water running in the kitchen, I shifted toward Troy. "I am so sorry about this," I said, my palms held out in apology. "My mom, sometimes she gets carried away and, like, loses her damn mind."
He drew a finger over his brows as he chuckled. "It's all good. It's great. This was great."
"You're lying," I blurted out with a choked laugh. "This was not great. It's all right to acknowledge that."
He shot a baleful glance at the empty table, tracing his brows again. "It wasn't as bad as you think. I haven't had a home-cooked meal like that in some time."
I blinked, looking him over and taking him in without the haze of surprise setup fury clouding my view. He was handsome. Easy on the eyes, if not a bit uptight. Maybe he wasn't truly uptight but his dress-shirt-tie-pullover-sweater combo read that way to me. And maybe I was judging this book by his cover but what was wrong about that? If the cover didn't accurately summarize the vibe of the book, it was the wrong cover.
"That—that's great." I cringed as Troy's favorite word passed my lips. "Mom's cooking is legendary. You know, she'd invite you back even if we aren't"—I pointed at the air between us, twining my fingers together as if that made sense—"if we don't. Because, you know. This isn't—"
"I get it. You seem great—"
"And so do you," I jumped in.
"But we don't have to—"
"Oh, god, no. No." I was agreeing too heartily but I couldn't stop myself. Under different circumstances, Troy and I might've shared an evening together but that would've been the beginning and end for us. We weren't it. Whateveritwas, we weren't. We didn't have it. "But I'm serious when I say my mother would be thrilled to have you back for dinner."
He shot another glance at the empty table, the only evidence of the modest feast coming from stray bits of tomato rice, a chickpea on the loose, some chouriço grease stains on the tablecloth.
Troy was a nice guy. Sweet, kind. Better than many others would've been in the same situation. But being a nice guy wasn't the checkbox for me. Yeah, I wanted nice but I also wanted someone who'd take one look at this shitshow setup, grab me by the hand, and get the fuck out of here. Someone who put up with no more than two minutes of my brothers and their a-hole routine before giving it right back to them. Someone who recognized my family was important to me but knew when I required—deserved—breathing room from them.
