The tension is palpable as we make our arrival. Nana Dorothy is the first to break the awkward silence, standing and coming over to greet us. “My darling girl, Merry Christmas,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. I’ve always loved Jase’s Nana. She's the warmest, kindest woman I know. It’s a shock that she’s responsible for giving birth to Magnolia, who is literally the opposite.
She hugs Jase next before turning back to me and placing a palm against my stomach. I startle from the soft touch, not because I'm at all uncomfortable but because I’m a little surprised she’s done it.
“How’s my sweet little great-grandbaby?” she asks.
However, before I can answer, Mrs. King clears her throat. “Glad you both could make it,” she says as she stands. “I wasn’tsure you’d be up for it, Monroe. It must be exhausting in your state after all that's happened recently.”
Her bitter tone and placating smile makes my chest tighten, but it’s the phrasing that makes it sound as if my pregnancy is a polite excuse to avoid family obligations. I’ve known this woman my whole life, having heard nothing but horrible things about her from my mother growing up. When I befriended Bailey and got to know her, I couldn't see what the town claimed Magnolia King was. Sure, she wasn’t the kindest to Bailey, but I figured it was normal given how my mother had all but disregarded my existence. But in the time since I'd gotten to know her, Magnolia King had been anything but rude to me.
However, this seems intentional. Immaculately dressed in a cream silk blouse that looks as expensive as it must be, not a blonde hair out of place in her pinned updo, her smile feigns kindness though it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I know how important this time of the year is for all of you,” I say, keeping my voice light and calm. “I knew Jase should be here.”
With a hand on the small of my back, Jase leads me to the seat beside his grandmother, pulling it out for me and urging me to take a seat while he walks over to greet his mother before taking the seat to my left. He doesn’t greet his father, though the man doesn’t pay us any attention, instead tightly gripping the glass of bourbon in his hand.
Across from me is his mother, seated to the right of Mr. King, who remains stoic at his spot at the head of the table. She watches me deliberately seeking some crack she can dig into, but I'm fully composed. I’ve spent all night and morning preparing for this, having avoided Jase in order to fully prepare myself for what was to come tonight.
Mr. King stands, carving out the roast chicken Margaret has set on the table before him with precise technique, his expression remains unreadable.
“Let us say grace,” Magnolia says. Her tone is gentle now as she leads us in prayer. “Lord, please bless this food made with love for our friends and family. May your grace bless us with more of what we’re thankful for. May you guide us in our life's decisions, guiding us when we stray from our path. May your love reach and lead us away from temptation and back to you. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
“Amen,” is heard all around, but I can’t pull my gaze from the woman whose eyes remained glued to mine throughout the entire prayer. Like her words were pointed at me, or more at her son, for straying from the path she carved out for him and following temptation—me.
Jase sets a warm, buttery roll on my plate that makes my stomach growl and my mouth water before taking one for himself. His mother’s eyes flick to the gesture, then away, her smile tightening.
We make awkward small talk as we’re served, pretending to care about the weather, how things have been going at the bar, though neither of his parents show any interest. Every topic is carefully chosen to avoid the real fractures in this family. But the silence between conversations remains heavy, the way people get when they’ve rehearsed their niceties but still want to say something else entirely.
“So, Monroe,” Mrs. King says, setting her fork down with a loud clatter. “How’s everything been with your siblings? Are you still planning to continue working for Montgomery now that you’re…” she pauses, her mouth tightening into a sharp line that matches her tone. “Expecting.”
But before I can answer, the front door opens and my heart stops as light, airy laughter floats in, followed by the click of high-heeled boots on hardwood. My least favorite sound.
“Sorry I’m late,” Indigo says as she enters.
Air catches in my lungs as I look at the blonde beauty, dressed like she’s stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, modeling their most recent winter look. The deep-red sweater dress fits her thin curves perfectly, paired with nude tights, white boots, and her hair cascading in effortless waves down her back. Her lips are painted to match the dress, and as she shrugs off her coat, I get a faint whiff of expensive perfume that makes me nauseous.
“Jake was kind enough to drive me to Rivers Bend to pick up these delicious cinnamon rolls I had at a local bakery there earlier this week, and the traffic back was terrible.” Without hesitation, she slips into the empty seat at Jase’s side. “Again, thanks for letting me stay last night, Mrs. King, and for inviting me to join you today.”
Mrs. King’s expression softens into something dangerously close to fondness. “Of course, dear. You know you’re always welcome.”
I keep my focus on my plate, my fork moving in slow, deliberate cuts through the chicken as I try my hardest to swallow back the bile in my throat. I try not to focus on the fact that Bismarck King is watching my every move now that Indigo has joined us.
Jase’s knee brushes against mine under the table in a silent reassurance I desperately need.
Indigo leans toward Jase with a vexing smile. “You could’ve told me you’d be here tonight. I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude, but it sounded like maybe you weren’t coming.”
Jase’s jaw flexes. “Didn’t think I had to mention anything to you. I figured you’d be gone by now.”
“Mmm,” she hums, taking a sip of wine Mr. King just poured her. The man stood from his seat to come serve her, while Margaret, who was still in the room, could have done so. “Thank you, Mr. King,” she says with a bright smile as she stares at the man who’s shockingly smiling back.
“Of course, dear. And remember, please call me Bismarck.”
She gives him a pleased smile, and the look on the man’s face makes me sick. “Yes, of course. Everything smells delicious, Magnolia.”
I force a small smile that doesn’t reach my eyes when she looks my way. “So,” she says brightly, looking straight at me. “How’s the co-parenting arrangement going?”
Mrs. King’s gaze sharpens in interest as she delicately brings a forkful of food to her lips. “It’s going well,” I say evenly, trying my hardest not to let my voice crack and show how incredibly uncomfortable I am.
My free hand fiddles with the lace of the white tablecloth under the table. “Breathe, Monroe,” I remind myself under my breath, but I’m not sure it’s working.
