Chapter 2: When He Called My Name
The chair scraped against the tile behind me.
I didn't turn to look. I could feel Daniel still crouched in front of me, his knees low, his navy suit pulling tight at the shoulders. His eyes had gone wide the way they had in that last second before the wide shot, but now he was listening past me toward the dining area where the string lights blurred. My cheeks were wet and my mouth was still open from what I'd just said and I couldn't get air without making a noise.
Daniel's left hand twitched, the dark watch catching the warm light from the garland. He didn't stand. Not yet.
From the dining table, my father's voice came flat and even.
"Sweetheart, come sit back down. Your food's getting cold."
He said sweetheart the way he always did when other people were there, soft on the first syllable, clipped on the second. It wasn't a question. I stared at the white tile between Daniel's shoes and mine, at the glossy reflection of the holiday lights stretching across the floor, and my hands tightened on the hem of my dress.
Daniel exhaled slowly through his nose. He pushed up from his crouch inch by inch, not fast, his right hand bracing lightly on his knee. As he rose, he turned his shoulder just enough that his back was to the dining area and I was behind him. He was tall when he stood fully, and in that kitchen his body made a wall between me and the table. I could see only the edge of his white collared shirt and the coiled clear earpiece that ran down behind his ear.
He didn't look at my father. He looked down at me.
My father called again, a little sharper. "Sweetheart?"
My stomach dropped. I swiped at my cheek with the back of my wrist and smoothed the front of my dress where I'd bunched it. The red sash had twisted. I flattened it with both palms, the velvet rough under my fingers. Daniel's eyes flicked to my hands, to my face, and he gave the smallest shake of his head, not no, just wait.
I tried to make my face look like nothing. At school my teacher said I had a tell when I was about to cry, my lower lip pressed thin. I bit the inside of it to stop it.
Daniel leaned down just enough that his mouth was near my ear. His voice was so low I felt more than heard it.
"I'm staying right here in the kitchen," he whispered. "I won't tell tonight. I promise. You go on. I'll be right here."
The words landed one at a time. I nodded before I knew I was nodding. My throat was too tight to answer.
He stepped half a step to the side, opening a narrow lane between the kitchen counter and the island, still keeping his shoulder angled so my father would have to look around him to see me. The fruit bowl on the counter was suddenly very clear, the oranges and apples sharp in the warm light. I could hear the refrigerator humming.
I took the first step. My white tights made a soft sound on the glossy tile. My sandals stuck slightly and then released. I kept my hands flat against my skirt, holding it down, and walked the four feet from where Daniel had shielded me to where the tile changed and the dining rug began.
My father was sitting at the head of the table, his chair pushed back a few inches, one arm resting on the table beside his plate. The garland was draped along the sideboard behind him and the string lights reflected in his glasses. He smiled when I came into view, a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"There you are," he said. "What were you two whispering about?"
My hands went colder. I slid into my chair, the wooden legs squeaking. I didn't look back at Daniel, though I could feel he was still standing by the counter, not moving away.
"Nothing," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Uncle Daniel said I looked pretty."
My father held my gaze for a beat longer than comfortable. He reached over and adjusted the red velvet ribbon in my hair, his fingers lingering at the bow.
"Of course you do," he said. "That's my girl."
May you like
He picked up his fork and nodded toward my plate. "Eat."
I picked up my fork with a hand that shook. Behind me, I heard Daniel shift his weight and open the cabinet just enough to make a normal kitchen sound, a glass being set down, water running for a second. He wasn't leaving. He was staying inside the hum of the house, inside the warm light, exactly where he'd said he'd be. I stared at my food and chewed without tasting it, the glossy tile stretching behind me like a thin, bright line between the table where my father watched me and the kitchen where Daniel kept his promise for the night.
