Mamá freezes mid-breath. My father turns an alarming shade of puce. And Abuela just… sips her wine like she hasn’t got a care in the world.
Alonso clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and offers Abuela the fakest smile I’ve ever seen on a living human. “Mamá?—”
“No.” She says it calmly, like she’s swatting away a fly. “You don’t get to speak to me either. Not until you remember how to speak to a woman with respect.”
Scott leans toward Athena, whispering behind his napkin, “This is better than pay-per-view.”
She nudges him, but she’s smirking, her eyes full of mirth. She loves nothing more than watching our father getting metaphorically kneed in the nuts. In fact, the only thing she’d love more is if someoneactuallykneed him in the nuts.
I swallow a laugh I definitely shouldn’t let out.
My father’s jaw works as he tries to pull himself back together. He fails. Miserably. “I was simply offering advice?—”
“Advice she did not ask for,” Abuela cuts in again. “And does not need. Dios mío, Alonso. The restaurant is full. The staff is competent. Your wife runs a successful business feeding the locals and the local economy. You run a… what is it now? A company full of men who think they know everything and learn nothing?”
Scott actually snorts, and I’m going to have to buy him a car if he doesn’t get me killed. My throat burns with the laugh that’s trapped there, desperate to escape.
My father bristles. “I will not be spoken to like this by my own family.”
It’s on the edge of my sharpened tongue to invite him to leave, because he’s not behaving like any family we recognize. Ares’s leg vibrates so much under the table the silverware ismoving. Apollo widens his eyes at me, a silent plea not to get involved.
“Then behave like family,” Abuela replies, cool as ice. “Not like a tyrant.”
Mamá? She’s still quiet and pale, making my chest cave. I wish she’d find the inner strength we all know she has and leave that pendejo.
Something in my father’s expression wavers—ego cracking maybe? His pride denting? Rage simmering dangerously close to the surface. And somewhere beneath that? Panic.
Good.
Maybe he can sense it. Maybe he can feel the change coming in the air. Maybe he can smell the gasoline I’ve been slowly pouring all over his legacy. My fork digs into the tablecloth, the edge of the metal biting into my palm.
I shouldn’t enjoy this. I shouldn’t want to twist the knife. But seeing him powerless for even a heartbeat tastes better than any food ever could.
Mamá clears her throat gently. “Perhaps we can enjoy the meal?”
I don’t know how, since all taste has now turned to ash in my mouth. The tablecloth shifts. She pats my father’s hand, an act of placation that doesn’t go unnoticed by my oldest sister who rolls her eyes. Scott covers her hand with his and squeezes, another quiet message not to wade into the conversation right now.
Abuela nods and resumes eating, utterly unbothered.
My father tries to do the same, but the tension rolls off him like smoke, thick and choking and bitter. My siblings avoid eye contact like it might get them drafted into the next round.
Me? I swallow another bite I can’t taste and picture the explosion that’s coming. The takeover. The rebrand. Thepress. The part where he learns his ‘spare’ son isn’t the obedient little pawn he keeps pretending I am.
A slow, dangerous satisfaction curls through my chest as he prattles on at us. Let him lecture. Let him posture. Let him think he’s still the king of this family, because I’m days—maybe weeks—away from knocking his crown clean off his head.
And for the first time tonight, I don’t want to stab myself with my dessert fork. I want to watch him fall.
Over dessert, I pull out my phone, because despite wanting to see Xavier again, I’m so glad he wasn’t here to witness this shit show of a holiday with my family. Holidays aren’t always like this in our family home, but those that havejustmy immediate blood connections and aren’t a lavish party keeping up appearances? Well, they’re starting to feel… suffocating.
We all feel it, the conversation landmines, the polite conversation, the silent discussions with our eyes across the table. It’s exhausting. I miss how things used to be, or how things are when Alonso is traveling for work and can’t make it.
I pull up my message thread with Xavier. Should I message him Happy Thanksgiving? Is that something people do?
I close out of the app and pull up social media instead. The first post on my screen is a very happy looking Martinez family crushed against each other. Xavier, his mom, his siblings—who all look like someone copy-pasted Roman, the eldest, and a few extended family members are all holding flute-shaped glasses of something probably fizzy.
My stomach stirs with something bitter, something green, and my chest pinches tight. I hate how the holidays force reflection. And I hate how much I wish I was in that photo right now even more.
Fuck. I hate my father. He’s ruined all the joy I might ever have held for holiday situations in this oversized house.Choosing not to invite Xavier to dinner with us was absolutely the right thing to do, but there’s a yearning in my chest that makes me wonder. Should I maybe have gone to him instead?
