Chapter 11
I didn't call ahead. I told myself if I called, my mom would tell me not to come, or David would say they had plans, and I would turn around in my apartment parking lot and lose the nerve.
That morning was December 31st and it was bright and cold. The highway between Columbus and my parents' house was empty. I had my tote bag on the passenger seat with the fellowship letter folded inside its envelope and the unsigned teaching contract underneath it. The deadline was tonight at midnight. My phone said 10:47 a.m. when I pulled into their driveway. Both cars were there, plus Megan's gray Subaru and Ryan's truck. I sat for a minute with the heat running and watched my breath fog the windshield before I cut the engine.
The front door was unlocked. It always was on holidays.
I came in through the side entrance where we kept our boots. I could hear voices from the dining room and the clink of plates. The same chandelier was on, throwing warm light onto the same polished wooden table. Only the food had changed. The ham platter was gone, replaced by a quiche on a white platter, a bowl of cut fruit, a basket of muffins, and a glass carafe of orange juice. The Christmas tree was still lit in the living room beyond the doorway, but a few needles had dropped onto the rug.
And David was at the head of the table. My chair. The one I'd sat in at Christmas holding that letter against my chest. He was seated there now in a dark sweater, sleeves pushed up, holding a serving knife over the quiche just like he'd held the carving knife over the ham. He was talking. My dad, Robert, was at his usual place to the right, listening. My mom, Linda, was refilling coffee.
Megan was on the left side in the same spot as Christmas, her dark hair in a low bun, black top and thin necklace, her phone face-up next to her plate. Ryan was on the right side in his black sweater, his phone in his hand. Nobody looked up right away when I stepped into the doorway. I still had my coat on and my tote bag over my shoulder.
Megan saw me first. Her eyebrows went up. "Lauren?"
Then everyone turned. The conversation stopped mid-sentence. David kept the serving knife poised over the quiche.
My mom set the coffee pot down a little too hard. "Lauren, honey, why are you here? We didn't know you were coming. We just threw together a little brunch."
I felt my throat go tight the way it had at Christmas when I'd pulled that letter to my chest and closed my eyes. Only this time I didn't clutch anything. I slipped the tote off my shoulder.
"I needed to come by before the New Year," I said. My voice sounded quieter than I wanted it to. I cleared my throat. "I hope it's okay I just came."
My dad stood halfway, then sat back down. "Of course it's okay," he said, but he looked at David when he said it.
David finally set the serving knife down. He wiped his hands on his napkin and gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're just in time. We saved you some quiche. Linda made it this morning."
He gestured to the empty chair left at the foot of the table, the farthest from him. The same kind of small move he'd made at Christmas, directing without asking. Megan picked up her phone and glanced at it. Ryan put his down face-down but kept his thumb on the edge.
I didn't sit. I walked to the side of the table, halfway between the kitchen and David's new spot at the head. The wood was polished and cleared except for the plates and the brunch dishes. I reached into my tote and took out the envelope. The white single-page letter inside was a little soft at the edges now from how many times I'd held it, read it in my bedroom, folded and unfolded it at the gas station.
For a week I'd held it against me like something I had to protect. At Christmas, at my apartment, at the diner with Jenna.
Now I pulled the single page out and placed it flat on the wooden table where everyone could see it. I smoothed it once with my palm and left my hand there for a second. The fellowship letterhead at the top, the Vermont address, my name printed underneath.
I didn't hold it to my chest.
I set it down in the center of the table, right next to the quiche platter and the oval fruit bowl, claiming the space the ham had occupied before.
The room went completely quiet except for the chandelier humming faintly overhead.
My mom looked from the paper to me. "Lauren, what is that?" she asked.
Megan leaned forward to read. Ryan looked up from his phone. My dad took his glasses off his head and put them on.
David stared at the letter where I'd placed it. His jaw tightened. He didn't reach for it. He looked at me instead, his hands flat on either side of his plate, holding his position at the head of the table.
"What are you doing?" he asked. His voice was low, controlled, the same tone he'd used before his open-palm gesture at Christmas.
I kept my hand on the table next to the letter. I wasn't shaking. I could feel the warm wood under my palm and the cool paper under my fingers.
May you like
"I drove down because this couldn't wait until someone asked about it," I said.
No one picked up a fork. The quiche sat uncut. The letter stayed exactly where I'd put it, white against the dark wood, and everyone was forced to look at it.
