Page 29 of The Embers That Remain

“Dinner is ready,” she said lightly. “I didn’t know if you’d make it.”

“I said I would.”

Bryant gave a small hum that could have meant anything. I’d stopped trying to predict which version of Bryant Massey would show up: the baseball legend everyone admired, or the man who could level a room with a single sentence. So everyone adapted. We learned which version of him was walking through the door before he even said a word.

The dining room table had already been set. White linen. Crystal glasses. Cloth napkins folded into sharp triangles. The kind of table you couldn’t relax at. A brisket sat in the center, steam curling up in spirals. The arrangement included small potatoes in a porcelain bowl covered in fresh parsley and roasted green beans lined up like soldiers.

The chair slid against the Turkish rug as I sat. Everything about the ritual felt rehearsed. Bryant stayed standing a moment longer, surveying the table as if it were a business meeting instead of a meal with his family. Bryant took his seat at the head, nodding to Julia, as if he were deeming approval over her table.

Julia poured wine with careful precision into the sparkling glasses. “Football season started,” she said, settling into the chair at Bryant’s right.

“It did.” Here we went again, having a meaningless conversation when I’d bet she didn’t want to be here anymore than I did.

“How is the team looking this year?” Bryant asked, cutting into his meat without looking up.

“They’re young but have a lot of solid talent,” I answered.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed. I swore he drew the meal out simply by eating at a slower rate than the average person.

“I saw the team’s record book for last year,” he said.

My hand went to the water glass instead of the wine. “We were rebuilding.”

“Aren’t you always?” he asked mildly.

Julia shot him a quick look, then gave me a sympathetic half smile. The same one she used to give me in high school when I showed up to a party alone, refusing to bring anyone else after Cali left.

“I heard about the injury,” she blurted. “Tyler Bennett, wasn’t it? His mother was frantic.”

My fork paused. “A good scare,” I said. “But he’ll be okay.”

“That is good,” Julia breathed.

Bryant dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“You let a kid get carted off in the third quarter of your first home game,” he said. “Not exactly inspiring confidence.”

I looked up. “Football’s a contact sport.”

“Control is part of coaching,” he countered. “Or have they changed that since my day?” We were on the verge of a recount of his glory days. Stories I could recite from memory because I had heard them more times than I cared to.

My grip clenched around my fork.

“We handled it,” I said evenly.

He leaned back in his chair. “Of course you did.”

Julia straightened in her seat.

“I saw Cali Walton is back in town,” she blurted as if she were trying to break the awkwardness. What she didn’t know was that that was the worst thing she could bring up.

The name exploded across the table as if someone had dropped a bomb. I didn’t look up.

“Oh?” Bryant said, interest sharpening. “The girl who ran off?”

“Her son is on the team,” Julia said, up-to-date on all the local gossip.

My knife touched the plate with deliberate care.