Every choice has a cost.
I swallow, wishing this one were easier to pay.
I get ready quickly, planning my escape from the house, but before I can even get downstairs, I hear the sounds of my family.
I hover near the entrance to the kitchen, watching them with a weight pressing down on me I can’t shake. The sharp pain of my migraine is gone, but the world still feels muffled, my right ear dulled and a high ringing pressing into my skull. If I’m lucky, it’ll fade by the time I start my show tonight.
Besides, after being too nauseated last night to eat, I’m starving now. The scent of shrimp and grits fills the air, and the morning light slants through the windows as I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen.
They’re gathered around the huge kitchen island while my dad makes breakfast.
"Hey, Lou Lou, how’s your head?" Dad asks when he sees me. He sets down his ladle and gives me a quick hug. Some of the flour on his black apron transfers to my Visit Sugar Maple sweatshirt, and he smiles, trying to brush it off, but I stop him.
"It’s much better, Daddy," I say. I shake the flour off, and it falls to the floor. "But I ain’t cleaning that up for you."
He chuckles. "Fair enough."
"It’s okay," Momma says, looking at my dad playfully. "I like watchin’ him work."
My dad laughs and walks over to my mom, nuzzling her neck and whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle.
Nope. No, thank you.
"I should get going," I say, because this? Right after last night’s conversation with Mom? Absolutely not.
“You have ten minutes before you have to leave,” Nora says. “We already ran food out to the bus, and Jimmy said it was wheels up at seven. So you’ve got time.”
“Yeah,” June says, looking up from her plate, her hair up in a messy knot. “Unless you’re just eager to see Patrick. I bet he looks extra broody first thing in the morning.”
Nora laughs and grabs a strawberry from the bowl in front of her. “He does have that Byronic hero thing going.”
I sit down between my sisters and pull the bowl of fruit closer. “You say that like it’s a good thing. Byronic heroes are insanely problematic.”
“Byronic heroes are works of fiction,” June says. “Patrick is tall, dark, handsome, and complex.”
“Youthinkhe’s complex,” I argue. “For all you know, every time he looked pensive, he was actually cataloguing his favorite flavors of potato chips.”
My whole family laughs at this.
“I’m not saying he’s your soulmate,” June says, “but Iamsaying you like him.”
“I don’t like him,” I say reflexively.
My sisters share a look that makes me want to pinch them both.
“I’m so excited to watch you perform tonight,” Momma says, coming around the island to give me a hug. I let her thin, strong arms wrap around me, and I lean into the hug in spite of myself—lean into the comfort.
My mom’s hugs are like medicine, and part of me wonders why I begrudge her enjoying the life she has.
“Thanks, Momma. I’ll be sure to dedicate a song or twelve to y’all.”
She chuckles, releasing me, but she holds my arms for a moment longer, her eyes searching. Then she smiles and I settle in between my sisters as our parents return to their flirting.
My mom smiles big, but the image keeps getting replaced by the memory of her at the piano last night, perfectly caught up in the music. Then I get flashes of when she used to bring me out on stage to sing with her, the way she looked so happy. Sowhole.
One of my nieces screams outside, where she’s playing with her siblings and my brother-in-law, and the sound pulls me back to the present—to where my parents are sharing a secret smile.
I know they’re happy. Iknowthey are.
