Page 38 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
But the peacemaker? She can’t escape. She has to remain on the battlefield, at her post. And suffer the physical consequences later.
“Dad.” After a tension-taut moment where he continues to glower at Levi, who once again is dining on his stew like it’s ambrosia, Dad drags his focus to me. “I’m sorry you felt you had to lie to your church member.” I ignore my brother’s snort. “That must’ve been uncomfortable for you.”
I’m sorry you can’t be proud of your children’s hard work, initiative, and success.
But the words remain trapped in my head because, hey. Peacemaker.
“I just don’t get why of all the businesses you three could’ve chosen to open, you decide on a breakup service, for God’s sake. It’s unheard of. And ridiculous. When people ask me what my children do for a living, I can’t even begin to explain it.”
“Not exactly unheard of. There are several companies like ours, but they don’t offer the level of services, packages, and amenities that we do. And it’s not ridiculous at all. If it were, we wouldn’t be in the black this year. There’s a need and a demand, and we supply,” Miriam says, sounding as if she’s reading from a financial journal.
Hell, I’m surprised she’s back from ... wherever to join the conversation.
“Oh, honey, I doubt if that’s true.” Mom goes so far as to pat her hand.
I’ve always wondered if she realizes how condescending she is toward Miriam. As if just because she’s a genius, she’s also void of common sense. It’s maddening. If Mom had her way, she would’ve prohibited Miriam from leaving the house, Bubble Wrapping her room and keeping her locked behind the door.
“She has an IQ of one hundred fifty-one and is a member of Mensa. I think I’m believing the genius,” Levi drawls.
“We get it.” I hold my hands up, the meal a heavy, congealed weight in my belly. Cold fingers scuttle down my spine, and a faint throb pulses above my right eye, portending a tension headache. “You don’t approve of our company.” How can we forget when it’s literally the only thing they agree on? “And if you choose not to tell your friends, congregation, or coworkers what we do, then fine. We wish you supported us, but we can’t force you. But can we table your disapproval and moral outrage for now? At least until our next dinner? If we don’t, we might not have anything to talk about.”
My father’s mouth thins, and Mom’s chin jerks back toward her neck. I glance across the table, and though his expression remains impassive, Levi is my twin, and I can read that look.
And you talk about my sarcasm?
Oh, shut up.
He sniffs and spoons up more stew.
I’m asking Mom to box up my leftovers and give them to him.
“There was no need for that much tone, young lady,” Mom says. After pushing back her chair, she picks up her bowl and rounds the table to grab Dad’s and then walks toward the kitchen. That’s how I know we’ve pissed her off. She’s being polite to Dad. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you three tonight.”
You.The word ricochets off my skull like a pinball.You and Dad pretending like you don’t recognize why we opened BURNED in the first place. You two acting like you don’t have any ownership in who we are and our decisions.
But ... peacemaker.
And the peacemaker never misses a good opportunity to shut up. Especially when the crisis appears to be averted. Even if it’s left her emotionally bruised and exhausted.
Just as I reach for my glass of wine, my cell phone vibrates against my hip. I startle, my elbow hitting the table. Frowning, I slip my hand under the table and into my pocket. It’s Sunday. Who would be texting me? Unless Deanna thought of something important and decided to message me so it would be the first thing on our minds Monday morning. She’s done that before.
“No phones at the dinner table, Zora. You know the rules,” Dad reminds me.
Too late. I’ve already slid the cell free and peeked down at the screen.
MNBM.
My heartbeat stutters, slows, and then kicks into hyperdrive. The raucous pounding drowns out whatever else my father says as I shove back my chair and stand. Pasting a smile on my face, I swallow past the sudden thickness of my tongue and grasp for normal. As Miriam squints up at me, I’m going to take a wild guess that I’m failing.
“I need to take this. I’ll be right back.”
Before Dad can say anything else, I stride from the dining room and pivot sharply in the opposite direction toward the front of the house. I don’t stop at the foyer, though. I open the front door and walk out onto the porch. Facing the cooler September air in a sleeveless romper is better than having one of my nosy family members sneaking in on me. Because no, they’re not above it.
I move to the porch railing and lean my back against it, facing the front door. Only then do I open the text.
MNBM.
My Next Big Mistake.
