Page 70 of The Burning
She smiled a little, keeping it a beat too long to not be fake, and that just made me feel more awkward. Her eyes were on me—they were one of her best features, but they always gave her emotions away. They were the color of warm honey, set deep in her face, with long, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks. My brother’s gross friends always said how hot she was. Austin hated the hot stepmom jokes, but I’m sure my dad loved having a beautiful wife dangling from his arm. While my mom was a stunning, energetic woman whose spirit just jumped out at you, I had never seen my dad parade my mom around like he did Estelle in her pencil skirts and tight dresses. Strangely, I wished I could stop judging Estelle so harshly. I hated the way it made me feel to think so negatively about anyone, especially as she stood there with a defeated expression, trying to get along with me while knowing I had never accepted or liked her.
The men in the house continued to ignore me, and to break the tense energy with Estelle, I followed her into the kitchen when she went to get my wine. She didn’t need to wait on me the way she did my dad. Their house had a lot of rooms, but they were all shoved together. There were so many things hung on the walls: his awards, mass-printed paintings of flowers, old family photos—it made me laugh that one of the frames still had the stock photo of a random family in a field inside. It would never be filled the way Estelle wanted, with a photo of the four of us, or maybe she didn’t give a shit and just liked the frame. The kitchen had a slight theme: white plaster bowls full of fruit, bread loaves half eaten and their bags half full, twirled and clamped shut with mismatching clips.
The clutter and wall art made the house feel like it was closing in on me. The decorations were mostly tones of brown; a big cabinet that had belonged to my grandma on my dad’s side was full of trinkets scattered around the shelves, neat enough to look decorated, but still cluttered. I recognized them all; they had been with my dad long before Estelle came into the picture. I was no Joanna Gaines, but if I had the kind of money my dad did, I would update my home with new things that made me happy, not just wives. I wouldn’t keep decades of memories only because I didn’t feel like bothering with moving them.
On the kitchen wall, near the fridge, there was a painting of a comet flying through a dark starry sky that my mom got at a garage sale when I was a kid. It followed us from house to house, kitchen to kitchen. Estelle standing in front of it as she uncorked a bottle of red wine felt wrong, but again, it was my dad’s fault, not hers. She probably didn’t even know that it’d belonged to my mom. I watched Estelle pour the wine slowly, as if she was lost in thought the same way I was.
I politely took my glass of wine and slipped into the dining room. My head was spinning as I took a deep breath and tried to stop thinking about my mom. In the next room, Austin and my dad talked loudly about the game. I guessed my father and brother’s relationship had changed recently; I’d assumed that Austin hadn’t been here, but it was becoming clear that he had. Long enough for them to become best buds. It made me envious that no matter what my brother did, my dad was proud. Even when Austin got steady C’s his entire academic career, as long as he was still playing football, he was a star student in my father’s eyes. Austin, with his average grades, got more praise and shoulder pats that I ever did . . . his favorite dinners made, trips to Dallas to see the Cowboys play in person. And now that he was going to be a soldier, my dad must have been over the moon.
No matter how many A’s I got, or how many science fairs or spelling bees I participated in, my dad either didn’t notice or didn’t care. I used to daydream of devising plans to get my father’s attention and approval, like running away or smoking a stolen cigarette in the house just to have my dad notice. Being yelled at was better than being ignored. It only got worse after Mom left; at least she would cheer for me when I brought home a good report card or finished a project. When she was mentally present, she made me feel seen, but as I got older, those times were few and far between.
“That’s a goal! Hell yes!” my dad shouted from the other room, pouring salt in my wound.
I continued to reminisce about the unfairness of how my dad treated my brother. In my memory, I could hear my dad telling Austin he was destined to play sports at a state college and would “really make something of himself.” Not once had my dad ever asked me what I wanted to do in the future, let alone encouraged me. My mom told me once, with vodka on her breath, that my dad wished I were a boy. Once the words were out, she covered her mouth and tried to take it back, but I would always remember the honesty in her voice when she said it. Now that I was more grown up, I was beginning to realize that my dad had issues with women in general, and not just the perpetual disappointment directed at my mother and me.
I pulled out my phone, about to text Kael to complain about all of them, to bitch about Estelle’s awkwardness and how my brother did virtually nothing and was still the golden child, to ask him what he knew about my dad’s awareness of Austin’s enlistment. I was so relieved that things had changed between Kael and me; even though our future was unclear, I was okay with that, for now, at least. I had gone from a brand-new, Instagram-quote-loving girl who didn’t pine over stupid soldiers with trust issues, to hooking up with Kael in the back of his truck in the middle of the woods and then missing him every second he wasn’t by my side. I wanted him to be the first to text me tonight, but I knew he was busy, so instead of complaining to him, I swiped out of my text messages and tapped on the Instagram icon.
I had a lot of notifications again; the market cactus and the purple chair picture were still the most popular out of my tiny grid and my followers were growing daily. Strangers were commenting for me to post more often, asking me where the chair was from and how much I would sell it for. The internet was so strange.
As Estelle brought in food from the kitchen into the dining room, I asked if she needed my help, but she politely declined. Each dish she carried in looked and smelled so good, and I was suddenly starving. Austin and my dad finally waltzed in as Estelle sat her gravy boat in front of me, still oblivious that its origin was offensive. I pushed it away, toward the center of the table, and made a mental note to accidentally break it someday soon. Austin plopped down across from me, and my dad took his usual seat as head of the table. Estelle began to busy herself with carving the chicken, something my dad used to do for my mom, who would get grossed out and become a vegetarian for a week whenever she attempted to carve any type of meat. Estelle didn’t seem to mind as she skillfully and silently sliced through the crispy skin, the smell of lemon and pepper rising with the steam from the dish.
Since no one was talking and I didn’t care about manners or etiquette today, I continued scrolling on my phone. I tapped on my photo icon and looked through the album, wishing I took more pictures of my experiences in general, and not just because of Instagram. I only had two random pictures from the camping trip: one of the fire, and one of a yummy breakfast. I should have taken some snapshots of Gloria, of Elodie, of Kael . . . and my brother with our joint birthday cake.
Family dinner began and continued around me. No one said much or seemed to care that I was completely checked out for most of it. My dad popped the top off a fresh bottle of beer that Estelle brought him, situating himself with elbows on the table as he took a sip. The chicken was good, as usual, and the mashed potatoes sucked, as usual. Estelle hated butter and never used it, and potatoes without it were practically a sin. The table decorations were on point though: maroon silk napkins with shiny silver rings around them and everything. She had neatly arranged place settings with silverware and wineglasses at every seat of the eight-person table despite there only being four of us. The chandelier kept flickering overhead, giving me a bit of sensory overload.
We were almost done with Estelle’s gourmet meal, and for once my dad hadn’t bombarded me with questions and passive-aggressive insults about my life choices, my job, and the way I was dressed. Likely he was too fixated on his golden boy becominga soldier! He must be glowing with pride and not the least bit concerned what his daughter had been up to. Maybe he didn’t want to cause a fight, considering we still hadn’t so much as breathed a word about what’d happened between us and Kael. Even Austin had stayed silent about it. My father wasn’t acting like someone who had ruined a group of men’s lives, like they all didn’t hate him to death, like even doctors at Martin Hospital didn’t have mysterious vendettas against him. Not that I thought he was going to bring up the faults he’d collected or war crimes in the middle of dinner, but still. The smooth, unwavering expression on his face gave me chills. He was a master at faking.
“So, Austin, how are you making money to support yourself these days?” My dad finally broke the silence, his eyes dancing around the table. Despite knowing it was coming, the last thing I wanted to talk about was my brother and the Army.
Austin sighed, wiping at his mouth with the fancy silk napkin. “I’m still working with a friend right now. Fixing up a duplex. Like, flipping it, basically.”
I looked at him, beyond confused about his response and why he didn’t mention enlisting in the Army. I moved a half-eaten baby carrot around on my plate as Estelle asked my brother another question.
“Does it pay much? This sounds like a good opportunity, Austin.” Estelle kept right on talking, not halted by my dad, who raised his brow. “Even if the pay isn’t much, it could be a good chance to learn if it’s something you’re passionate about.”
Austin nodded and set his beer bottle down in front of him. I noticed he had been nursing the same one since I arrived. “Yeah, my friend Martin is really good at real estate and demo. He’s good at the business stuff and the physical stuff.”
I almost choked on my food as they casually spoke about him. Like my dad and Kael hadn’t had a screaming match in my living room just weeks ago, each threatening one another as I stood in disbelief. I watched his stone face closely. He didn’t blink—he just continued to act like he didn’t know that Kael was Martin, the friend my brother was talking about. I was so confused, but my gut told me to stay quiet for now, even though I had a million things to say.
My biggest question: Why was everyone talking about Austin’s future flipping houses when he was weeks away from leaving for basic training? My dad and Austin hadn’t mentioned the Army yet? Was he keeping that from my dad and Estelle? It was beyond freaking creepy how good of an actor my dad and my brother both were in the moment. The fork my dad used scraped against his nearly empty plate. There wasn’t much left, but he seemed determined to get every last morsel of food. I really hit the lotto with my parents, didn’t I? An absent mom, a cold puppet master dad.
My brother went on, “It’s a pretty good setup. I get to have a roof over my head.”
He looked at our dad and their eyes met. “What do you mean a roof?”
“Yeah, Martin’s letting me stay with him since I’m between places right now.” Austin would have usually made a snarky comment about how my dad was to blame for his misfortune in life, but he didn’t. He was keeping things matter-of-fact, even if he was leaving out a massive detail about his life lately.
“He is? Well . . .” My dad’s throat sounded a little dry.
“Yeah. He’s a good dude.” Austin nodded.
I could sense it was becoming harder and harder for my dad not to say something about Kael. He used a lot of self-control, and I watched him bite his tongue. He was clearly up to something.
“Well, this is a good in if we need any repairs or remodeling done,” Estelle chirped, clueless.
“Right.” My dad looked at Estelle and then me. The tone of his voice was more bitter than the tequila I drank straight the weekend before.
Chapter Thirty
