Page 159 of Sweet Ruin

Then he proceeds to fill my plate like I’m the Incredible Hulk.

Kutya. Fish. Vegetables. Dumplings. More. More. More. More.

“Kane, that’s⁠—”

“Eat,” he says. It’s not unkind or harsh. It’s almost like he’s granting me permission in a way I’d never do for myself. Like, nobody would ever dare cast judgment when he’s around to say things in that voice.

I find that I really don’t mind it at all.

What I do mind is how suddenly and weirdly silent it is in here.

I look up…

… to see every eye fixed on me.

“Psst. Psst, Kane.” I elbow him in the ribs. “Why is everyone staring at me?”

Kane rests his hand on my knee.

“Because we’re waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me to what?”

“To begin.”

My throat closes.

I look at the table. At all the food going untouched while I sit here doing nothing useful.

Waiting for me.

Not waiting for me to slice the cake.

Not waiting for me to refill a drink.

Not waiting for me to Do It All.

Just me.

I pick up my fork and take a bite of kutya.

Instantly, around the table, everyone begins to eat.

Conversation returns in a pleasant rush. Glasses lift. Arguments resume. Happy moans and groans break out from every place setting.

Every place setting except for one, that is.

I turn toward Kane and immediately recoil when I see that he’s the only person in the room who isn’t perfectly at ease.

He’s staring at something intently. Angrily, almost. Sadly? Mournfully? I don’t even know.

I look where he’s looking.

Across the room, on a shelf between old books, is a framed photograph.

The picture is faded at the edges. Just like tonight, a Christmas table fills the center, crowded with men and women. Every chair is occupied.

A broad, soft-looking woman stands behind them with a serving dish in her hands.