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Just like that, the tension breaks, and Mykel bursts in, all smiles and energy, dropping kisses on cheeks and slapping Brandon’s shoulder like they’re old friends.
“Now,” Thomas announces, “shall we begin with the soup?”
“Yes, please,” my father says before turning back to my brother. “Where’s Madison?”
“Parent emergency. She sends her regards and all that formal crap.” He winces. “Again, sorry, Thomas.”
“That’s alright, Mr. Mykel.” Thomas disappears into the kitchen.
Seconds later, the soup arrives and, as expected, makes my stomach clench. Brandon’s hand should ground me, but it feels distant.
“Speaking of Madison,” Mykel says between spoonfuls, “we’re moving in together. In a few days.”
“Already?” Dad’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. “Didn’t you want to wait after?—”
“It’s been months, Dad.”
“Hardly enough time to really think it over.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Anne cuts in, her voice carrying that forced brightness she uses at charity events. “Madison’s lovely.”
“She is,” Mykel says.
I watch the ripples in my bowl, remembering how Mom used to lecture about proper soup etiquette. Spoon away from you, never blow on it, small sips only.
“Naomi.” Dad’s voice snaps me back. “You’ve hardly touched your soup.”
“The consommé’s excellent, Thomas,” Brandon says. “Perfectly clarified.”
Thomas beams from his position by the wall. “Thank you, sir. An old family recipe.”
“You would know about recipes,” Dad mutters.
“Actually,” I find my voice, “Brandon’s new restaurant concept sounds promising.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “You’re involved in this venture?”
“I’m help—Yes.” The words come out stronger than I feel. “My expertise in financial planning could be valuable.”
“I see.” He dabs his napkin against his lips. “And you believe this is… wise? Given recent events?”
The room goes silent except for the soft clink of Mykel’s spoon against his bowl.
“Recent events,” Brandon repeats, his voice dangerously calm, “have nothing to do with Naomi’s professional judgment.”
“Don’t they?” Dad sets down his napkin. “Emotional instability often affects decision-making. Like abruptly moving in with a girlfriend or starting a new business.”
“David,” Anne warns, but he continues.
“I’m merely concerned about my children’s wellbeing.”
“Then maybe.” I let out a small huff. “You should ask us about it instead of talking around us.”
His eyes narrow at me. “I see your mother’s death hasn’t improved your attitude.”
“My attitude?” My spoon clatters against the bowl, soup sloshing over the pristine tablecloth. “Let’s talk about it, Dad. Let’s talk about how you barely looked at me since that night. How you never once asked me if I was okay. If I could sleep at night. If I could still breathe without seeing?—”
Dad’s face hardens. “This isn’t the time.”