“You scared you might disintegrate if you set foot inside a church?” Marlow cut her eyes over to him before she polished off the rest of her bread.
“I can’t rule it out as a possibility.”
Holt snorted. “Anyone ever notice how we end up in the strangest conversations at Sunday dinner?”
A server delivered mozzarella sticks, bruschetta, and stuffed mushrooms to the table.
“Considering you’ve missed most of them in the last decade, I don’t think you’re an authority in that arena.” Marlow scooped a few mushrooms onto her plate as she delivered the dig. She lifted her gaze to Holt. “What did you and Celia talk about at your Sunday dinners?”
Holt tensed beside me. Who is Celia? And why does she elicit this reaction from Holt?
“Marlow.” Mr. Dixon’s searing tone cut across the table. All movement ceased.
“Oh, he can bring up—” She swallowed hard, unable to finish her sentence.
“Tit for tat is not how this family operates,” their father scolded.
“No, we just go straight in for the kill.” Marlow held up her wineglass to a passing waitress.
“Actually, avoidance is what we do best.” Andrew dunked a mozzarella stick into marinara sauce.
“Enough,” Mr. Dixon admonished.
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the table. Trish and I exchanged helpless looks, uncertain what to do or say.
Holt drained his beer and immediately began to peel the edge of the label. He concentrated on the bottle and left his plate of appetizers untouched.
I moved my hand to his thigh before I thought better of it. It pained me to see him so upset, but I didn’t know if he wanted my comfort.
* * *
The remainder of the meal didn’t get any better. Awkward silence stifled my appetite. No one was really eating. Mostly we pushed food around on our plates. But I'd take that any day over no family dinner at all.
Mr. Dixon settled the bill and stood. “I want this stuff cleared up by next Sunday at dinner.”
Marlow tossed her napkin on the table. “I don’t know if we’re coming.”
Hurt flashed in her father’s eyes. He bent to pick up Blake and cradled him to his chest. Mr. Dixon simply nodded once.
“Why do you do that?” Holt glared at Marlow. “This is the only thing Dad wants from us and you can’t give him a couple hours of your time.”
“I’m not the one who ran away to Wyoming. You’re really not in a position to lecture me.” She slung her bag onto her shoulder.
“Just because you’re miserable doesn’t mean you have to make the rest of us that way,” he said, his voice rising.
She shoved in her chair and rounded the table, prying her now crying son from Mr. Dixon’s arms. “If it weren’t for you, we’d have had a mother at all these Sunday dinners you missed.”
Whoa. That was unbelievably harsh.
Holt recoiled.
“Marlow.” Andrew had been mostly silent, letting his siblings argue, but I’d never heard such a severe tone.
“Why don’t you say what you really mean?” Holt asked as if his brother hadn’t interjected.
“What? That it’s your fault Mom left us. Or that you should have stayed on the other side of the country. Because I could go with either.”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Dixon hissed, stepping between the two of them.
Holt’s fists clenched at his sides as he glowered at his sister. Hurt and anger radiated from him, but he held his tongue.
I touched his arm, and he flinched. “Let’s go,” I said softly.
For a moment, he didn’t move. I gripped his bicep and gently tugged. Holt relented and stormed toward the door without a word to anyone else. I gave Trish a look over my shoulder, conveying we’d talk later. She nodded once, her hands knotted in front of her.
“You okay?” As soon as I said the words, I wanted to take them back.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Holt asked stiffly.
His strides were long and quick. I struggled to keep up, somehow holding on as he led me down the street.
“A lot of awful things were said back there.”
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
Chapter Eleven
Holt
Baker wanted to push.
I felt it.
Yet somehow she kept from doing it. I was too pissed off to fully appreciate that.
I unlocked the door to the apartment, held it open for her, and shut it with a satisfying slam. The one beer I’d had at dinner didn’t even scratch the surface of my need. I went straight to the fridge and pulled out two bottles.
I untwisted the cap, offering it to Baker. Reluctantly, she accepted. I opened my own and downed half of it in one swallow.
She stared at me as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Whatever it is you want to say, now’s not the time,” I warned.
She bristled before she straightened. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here. If you don’t, I’m here too.”
I flashed a saccharine smile across the kitchen at her. “You know what I want? A long, hot shower. If you want to join me, I won’t lock the door.”
Her lips parted, a satisfying little gasp of air escaping. She didn’t bother to remind me that I still hadn’t repaired the door and it couldn’t lock. I polished off my beer and set the empty bottle on the counter. My eyes dared her to follow me before I shoved off the cool granite.
As I moved down the hall, I shed my shirt. Damn my sister. She’d be the first to admit she was a bitch, but this was a new low. I’d never once doubted our relationship. Now?
I didn’t know where we went from here. Sure, we fought like all siblings. We’d both said things we didn’t mean before. But I’d never seen today coming. She’d never attacked so viciously. Why now after all these years?
I pushed my jeans and boxers off my hips. Her words were on replay in my head, and even as I dipped my head under the lukewarm spray of the shower, I couldn’t turn them off.
“Goddammit.” I pounded my fist on the wall.
Anger had made me lose my mind. I never should have said those things to Baker. Hell, it was the truth. I wanted her wet, naked body in this shower with me. Needed to hear her scream my name until my sister’s voice was muted.
Instead, I was stuck in a perpetual hell where Marlow had confirmed my worst fears. What my father would never admit.
They all blamed me for my mother’s departure.
I hadn’t been able to stay in Wyoming, but I shouldn’t have come back here. Where I wasn’t wanted.
I wasn’t wanted there, either. Celia and I hadn’t had Sunday dinners. We’d done Saturday nights with our best friend Cameron. Grilling out. Beers on the tailgate by the creek. It had all been perfect. And Marlow knew what had happened, even if I’d never talked about how I felt. For her to use that against me . . . in front of Baker? For the first time ever, the stirrings of loathing for my sister swirled. It was an emotion I was all too familiar with.
I braced both hands on the wall in front of me and let the spray rain down on my back. My breaths were harsh as I pulled air in and pushed it out of my lungs.