Chapter 17: Sunday

My father had made pot roast.

He only makes pot roast when he is happy.

I knew before we sat down that this would be the worst dinner of my life.

Caleb and I had driven to Bexley in separate cars, out of habit.

We parked on the street and walked up the path together, and he took my hand on the porch, in plain view of the neighbors.

My father opened the green door with a dish towel over his shoulder.

He saw our hands.

He looked at them for exactly as long as it took to decide not to look.

"Come in, come in, it's getting cold," he said.

The dining room smelled of rosemary and the good candles.

Diane was already at the table, with a very straight back and her hands folded.

She met my eyes and gave me the smallest nod.

"Richard," she said, when he'd passed the bread around. "I should confess something."

"Confess away."

"I told the children we had news. We don't. I wanted them in one room on a Sunday."

My father laughed, big and warm, and reached for the butter.

"That's a Diane move. Fine. Eat."

Under the table, Caleb found my knee.

I put my fork down.

"Dad," I said. "We do have something to say."

"We?"

"Caleb and me."

The laugh went out of the room in pieces.

My father looked at me, then at Caleb, then at his plate.

"Is this a work thing?" he said. "Because if it's Hartwell, we can do it tomorrow."

"It's not Hartwell."

"Lena..."

"It's me and Caleb," I said. "We've been together since Dayton."

Nobody spoke.

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