The Gift by C. D'Angelo

Author:C. D'Angelo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C. D'Angelo
Published: 2024-07-22T05:59:11+00:00

Chapter

Thirty-One

"Where’s Christian today?” Dad asks as he kisses me on the cheek and wraps his strong arms around me.

“Oh, he had to grade final projects for his class. He sends his regards.” More like he refused to spend time with me after yesterday’s disaster in Temecula Valley and the longest drive home of my life. We probably set a record for the most freeway miles where a married couple didn’t speak.

Mom looks away and squints. “He never misses a Sunday dinner.” She brings her eyes back to mine.

I peek at Flora in the family room, moving toward me. “Hey!” I yell, avoiding an answer to Mom’s non-question that is a question.

“Hey, you.” Flora takes the tote bag off my shoulder. “Bring this to the kitchen?”

“Yeah, it’s some fresh figs I couldn’t resist at the farmer’s market. I figured we could snack on them today.”

“You thought right, since I have burrata, prosciutto, and crackers for us too. Thanks, Toni.” Mom grins and pushes a curl under her headband.

But was that a side-eye as well?

“I’ll chop them up.” Speed-walking to the kitchen to keep dodging any Christian comments isn’t smart, but it’s all I can think of in the moment. Why not go to the one place Mom is bound to walk next? Jeez. “So, Flora, how’s the store?” I ask.

“It’s standing.” She sets my bag down on the table.

“I hope so,” I say as I get out a cutting board and knife.

Mom, shock of all shocks, enters the room and grabs a colander. “Give me those. I’ll wash; you dry.” She directs her attention to me.

I can see right through her innocent offer, straight to her knowing something’s off with me.

“So, where is Christian?” Flora chimes in from beside me at the table.

I should have come prepared with elaborate fictitious answers. But isn’t that when people can tell someone is lying? I think I read somewhere that liars use a lot of details. So, less is more. Yes, that’s the ticket.

Dad makes his way into the small space, opening the fridge and digging to find who knows what.

“It’s no big deal. You know the end of the semester gets busier for him.” I take a washed fig from Mom, the towel from the stove arm, and dry the fruit as I return to the table.

Flora cuts each fig as I bring them over, and Dad places the snacks on a large dish. We have our own human conveyor belt. I can’t be the one to cause a glitch in the line with marital specifics, bringing everyone to a halt.

“I hope he comes next week,” Dad says.

Now him too? I exhale louder than I’d expect—or like.

Mom whips her head around from the sink. “Toni, we’re your family. You don’t have to hide anything from us. Now, give.”

What am I exactly covering anyway? The simple fact of the matter is that Christian and I haven’t been on the best terms—well, stable terms at least. But that doesn’t mean anything bigger is happening. Or

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