Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

My dad sat at my table for a long time without saying a word.

Then he stood up, slowly, and put his hand on the back of the chair.

"I'll ask her Sunday," he said. "At dinner. Out loud, with everybody there."

"Dad."

"Your mother wouldn't lie to me, Corina. She'll have an answer."

He kissed the top of my head the way he did when I was small and left the pot roast on my counter.

Friday came and went.

Colby didn't text me about the tuition account, or about anything else.

On Sunday morning Keely carried her duffel bag down my stairs and put my spare key in my hand without looking at me.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"I know."

She drove off to my parents' house with her blinker on.

At five o'clock I followed her.

The house on Hartman Street has a porch swing and a wreath on the door that my mom changes with every season.

Inside it smelled like pot roast and furniture polish.

Everyone was already at the table.

My dad was at the head of it with his arms crossed.

Colby sat on one side in a dress shirt, staring at the salt shaker.

Keely sat next to him, folding and unfolding her napkin.

My aunt was there too, passing the rolls to nobody.

My mom came out of the kitchen and put her arms around me.

"There she is. There's my girl."

She smelled like vanilla.

"Sit, honey. Eat something."

"I'll sit," I said. "I'm not eating."

"Russ," my mom said, "say grace."

"Not yet," my dad said.

The kitchen clock ticked.

"Bernice," he said. "How much does Corina send us every month?"

My mom put the gravy boat down very gently.

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