Page 3 of Always Love You More

If he wants me to.

He knew I’d see them when he sent me out there, but I can’t tell if this is a test in keeping quiet or in speaking up.

I take in his posture.

It’s relaxed. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His mouth is set in a thin line, like he’s purposely trying to hide any tell, but he still has one. His right brow is arched, as if he’s daring me to say something.

Quiet then. He wants me to be quiet.

I drop into my seat, and he shifts, bringing his elbows to the table.

“Any trouble?”

“All good,” I answer.

“Good,” he says, and with that word, I know I guessed right.

My mother sets down a mug of coffee in front of him then moves back to the stove, returning a minute later with his plate of food.

She brings mine next before finally sitting down with her cup of coffee. She never eats breakfast. Instead, she lights a cigarette and picks at her long red nails.

My father’s fork scrapes against the plate as he cuts into his eggs, the yolk running into his toast. I wait until he’s taken his first bite before cutting into my own.

He looks up from his food, glancing around the table. “Orange juice?”

My mother follows, looking around like, at any moment, it’ll just appear.

“I’ve got it,” I say, pushing my chair back, but I only get so far before it stops, blocked by my father’s leg.

“I didn’t ask you,” he grits out.

I picture what it would feel like to lean forward and grab him by the collar of his shirt. To slam my fist against his face and see his eyes go wide with shock.

But I keep still, my attention shifting to my mother as she stands and mumbles an apology, coming back a minute later with a glass of orange juice.

I scooch my chair in and start eating again, if only to give my hands something to do.

I’m halfway through my plate when she finishes her cigarette. Stubbing it out, she says, “We need groceries, and I don’t have enough.”

My father cuts his eyes to her. “I just gave you money a few days ago.”

“We needed things for the house. Cleaning stuff,” she rambles on.

“Uh-huh,” he grunts, pulling a clip of money from his back pocket. He sets down three twenties on the table. “I want to see the receipt when you get home.”

She blows out a breath. “Come on, Levi. Seriously?”

He tips his head to the side and slips his voice into that tone you never want to hear. “Yes, seriously.” He leans forward. “Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”

Her eyes drop as she shakes her head. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She snatches the money from the table without meeting his eyes. Then, starting to stand, she murmurs, “I’ve gotta go get dressed.”

He grabs her wrist. “I’m not done eating yet.”

Slowly, she lowers herself back into her seat, while my father picks his fork back up and turns toward me.