Page 8 of What You left in Me

“I cleared it,” I say, and I can’t help it, the laugh escapes. It warms the room a degree.

From the far end, Ariane lets out a soft chuckle that isn’t meant for anyone but herself. It’s unguarded in a way nothing else about her is tonight, and my stomach tightens like a fist. I don’t look down the table. I keep my gaze on my plate, on the stupid parsley garnish.

Jesus. She’s my step-sister. The little girl who used to trail around this place with books stacked higher than her head. Not someone I should notice now.

“So,” I say, trying to sound as casual as I can. “Julian couldn’t make it tonight?”

There’s a small hitch, the kind a skater makes when the ice surprises them. Then her voice carries back, “He’ll be here Friday.”

No extra words or even an apology for him.

Smart woman.

I lift my glass as she lifts her water. Our eyes catch in the reflected dark of the windows, not in the direct line, as if the room itself wants plausible deniability. One beat. She looks away first, tucking a piece of stray hair behind her ear.

“Busy man,” Eleanor inserts, brisk. “Campaign donors don’t schmooze themselves.”

Richard clears his throat like he’d rather talk about raccoons again. He tries anyway. “Ari, how’s the school? Still doing that poetry unit you love?”

“It’s the mythology unit now,” she says with a small smile but there’s a strange glint in her eyes I can’t quiet place. “Teenagers like gods who are allowed to be terrible.”

“Careful,” I say, because my mouth moves before I ask it not to. “You’ll spoil them into thinking they’re invincible.”

“They already do,” she returns, glancing up. The look is quick and amused. There’s no bite in it, but I feel one anyway.

I remind myself it doesn’t matter. I’ve had women, plenty of them, and they blur together because that’s what they’re meant to do. Ariane isn’t allowed on that, or any other, roster. She’s the line I’m not going to cross. For all the fucked-up shit I do, there would be no walking that one back.

Eleanor claps softly, a hostess breaking invisible glass. “We are not talking shop tonight. Ariane, pass the salad please. Finn… bread basket.” She corrects herself halfway and doesn’t look at me, and I pretend that doesn’t land. I pass the basket, keep my hands occupied, watch the way Ariane moves as she gets up to hand the salad bowl to Eleanor.

The couple from down the lane, church friends, the Whitakers, murmur about the repaired boathouse. I remember the boathouse, and I also remember never using it for boats. I remember making out with a girl from the swim team against the door one July and Mom’s voice like frost when she found us. The girl from down the street, the junior, the shy waitress from the restaurant down the road…Fuck! How many were there?

Dad leans forward, elbows the napkin ring he’s been fidgeting with. “You still running, Finn? Your mother used to say you’d run in your sleep if you could.”

“Not lately.” I cut into a piece of roast that’s better than I want it to be. “City doesn’t make it easy. I have to find the time to go to Central Park.”

“City makes everything easy,” Eleanor says, cool as the flatware. “It’s harder in the middle of nowhere.”

“Depends on why you’re staying,” I say. I refuse to look at her. She knows the conversation we’re not having.

Ariane’s fork makes the smallest sound against porcelain, a bright pin-drop. She glances at Dad. “The east garden looks beautiful, Richard. The trellis… did Mrs. Harrow help choose the wisteria?” Her voice softens on Dad’s name. It always does, honestly.

“She did,” he beams. “We’ve got buds already. You should see it in May… the whole arch goes violet.”

“Eleanor’s going to pretend it was white in the pictures,” I say lightly.

“Don’t be crass,” Eleanor mutters. My comments used to make her angry before but now she’s learned to live with them. “Now, who wants pie?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she gives the nod toward the swinging door, and somewhere in the back a plate clinks, a timer pings, and the house breathes again. Apple pie arrives hot enough to melt the ice cream before it fully lands. The scent does the heavy lifting the conversation can’t. Everyone eats in silence, and for a few minutes, nobody tries to be interesting.

Dad pours a little more Bordeaux into my glass, his voice low. “It’s good you came, son.” His hand brushes my shoulder.Unlike me, he never learned how to be stingy with touch. “It means something.”

I swallow wine that’s suddenly harder to enjoy. “Don’t make it a bigger than it is, Dad,” I sigh. “You said three days. I’m here.”

“I said three days because I knew you’d bristle if I said a week,” he says, smiling like he’s figured out a magic trick. “We take what we can get.”

Eleanor nudges the pie server toward Ariane as if the silver can transfer an order without words. “Ariane, darling, second helpings?”

“I’m fine.” She sets the server down, wipes a crumb with her thumb, a small and contained movement. She looks down the length of the table at me. “Are you still installing motion detectors?”