“Sis!” my brother calls out, his voice carrying as he steps in from the patio. His Cartier shades are pushed into his dark curls and a smirk is already in place. He’s the picture of casual affluence, linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled with care, Rolex glinting on his wrist.
“About damn time. I had decided you weren’t going to show.Again.”
Dominic never misses a chance to point out the obvious, especially when it comes with a side of smug. It’s his way of reminding everyone I missed the last few family gatherings… while he didn’t. It’s sibling rivalry at its most passive-aggressive, wrapped in a grin and delivered as a joke.
“I stalled on purpose, hoping you’d be finished talking about yourself by the time I got here.”
Dominic smirks without missing a beat. “You wound me, baby sister.”
He still calls mebaby sister, though I haven’t been the baby for nineteen years.
Beside him is his wife, Camille. Tall, poised, and elegant in a way only old money can breed. She kisses my cheek, light as silk, her designer perfume cutting through the scent of herbs and butter lingering in the air.
“You look beautiful, Laurette.”
“Thank you, Camille, and you’re stunning as always.”
And then there’s Ella, our actual baby sister. She’s wearing an LSU hoodie and Lululemon leggings, hair still damp from a late-morning shower. Her earbuds are in, ready to drown out the next family comment. She throws her arms around me, hugging tightly.
“I was about two seconds from faking a migraine,” she whispers in my ear. “You’re the only normal one here. I swear, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have come.”
I squeeze her in return. “Next time, we’ll fake migraines together. Deal?”
We laugh, and she pulls me into the dining room. This is Sunday for us. Loud voices layered over one another, the clink of serving spoons, my mother’s flair for dramatics dressed up as concern, my father’s silence carved into the background as always.
This house is its own kind of courtroom.
I slip into my usual seat beside Ella. My father claims the head, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. My mother is already halfway through a monologue about something none of us care about.
“Smells good,” I say, eyeing the platter of lemon thyme chicken next to bowls of wild rice and glazed carrots. Comfort food, but polished enough to pass for elegance.
Across the table, Dominic’s holding court with a story about a case he picked up last week. Some hotshot business exec caught up in insider trading. Camille jumps in with a story about a judge who wears Crocs under his robe, and the room cracks open with laughter.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend nothing’s changed. Easy to smile, eat, and lose myself in the rhythm.
But under the banter and clatter of silverware, the weight lingers—Jon David’s absence and the conversation I still haven’t had with my family.
And right on cue…
Dominic spoons roasted carrots onto his plate. “I take it Jon David’s skipping Sunday lunch today?”
The table pauses. Not quite silence, but a stillness that waits.
I set my fork down. “Jon David and I broke up.”
No buildup, no heads-up. The truth strikes, clear and unavoidable.
My mother’s hand lifts to her chest. Camille straightens in her seat, posture tightening. Ella freezes mid-sip, her eyes snapping to mine.
Dominic lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Well. It was overdue.”
“Dom,” my mother says, more caution than reprimand.
Camille’s eyes widen. “Oh wow. That’s… sudden. Everything okay?”
My smile is small and controlled. “It’s been a long time coming. We don’t want the same things.”
Except we actually do want the same thing.
