Page 92 of Lyric Squared

“I’ve never made any,” Luca responded.

“I shoot back,” shrugging, I replied.

“I shoot first.”

“Liam. The nigga, Liam, made the request so be there. Luca’s crib at seven.”

“Why you niggas didn’t lead with that?” I fumed.

“‘Cause, that nigga ain’t yo daddy,” Liam howled. “Didn’t you just say your pops dead?”

“Fuck you! And that big head ass nigga beside you,” I told them as I ended the call.

Immediately, I dialed Lyric’s cell. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey,” she crooned. Her silky voice caressed my heart. “Miss you much.”

“Same,” I admitted, watching my surroundings. “Same.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Sunday dinner,” I shared.

“What about it?” she asked.

“Your father wants me to come.”

THIRTEEN

Sittingacross the table from Keanu wasn’t exactly how I’d expected my Sunday night to end. As laughter filled the room, I found it hard to find humor in anything anyone was saying. In fact, I hardly heard anything other than the loud ringing in my ears as I stared off into the distance while everyone passed their plates around the table, instructing the person in front of their favorite dishes to load them up. My plate sat in front of me as I tried to comprehend exactly what was happening.

“Lyric,” Ever whispered firmly in my ear as she squeezed my knee underneath the table.

“Huh?” I snapped my neck in her direction.

“Snap out of it, babe,” she told me while grabbing the plate that was being handed to me.

“Salad?” she asked Laike.

“Yeah!” he yelled across the table.

Salad was my dish. I hadn’t made it or brought it over but I was sitting in front of it.

“Thank you,” I whispered in her direction.

The next plate headed in my direction. This time, I grabbed it and without asking, I piled the six-layer salad onto it. Still numb and out of touch with reality, I did the same for the next two that were passed along. It wasn’t until everyone’s plate was complete, that I realized I never put mine in the lineup. With it being left out of the rotation, there wasn’t a single scrap on it.

“Lyric, you’re not eating anything?” my father asked from across the table, seeing as though everyone was digging into their plates but me.

“Of course,” I chuckled, nervously, “running my mouth and forgot all about my plate.”

I lied. Though I hated it, to cover for my lapse it was necessary.

“Says she’s trying to lose five pounds. I don’t see why?” Ever interjected, “You’re literally perfect but the salad is fire so I understand if that’s all you want, still.”

She was a lifesaver. As she patted my leg underneath the table, I rested my worries a bit. The pressure didn’t seem so intense and my father’s attachment to her words redirected his attention to a completely separate topic.

“Five pounds?” He sniggered. “You’re definitely your mother’s child. Five pounds where, Lyric?”