Ermington: Don’t ignore me. I can see you.
And across the table, under the runner, his foot finds mine. It isn’t a kick. It’s the side of his shoe set against the side of my boot.
I don’t move my foot. But I also don’t look at him. I type with one hand in my lap, eyes on my plate.
Me:I’m okay.
Ermington: Smile.
I roll my eyes. His foot stays. After a moment, I press the side of my boot back against his shoe. I pick up my wine with the same hand that just typed I’m okay, and I drink.
I look up. He isn’t looking at me. He’s listening to something Robert is saying, nodding.
His foot is still against mine under the table. I hold it there for the rest of the meal. It eases the anxiety swimming in my chest, and I relax just a little knowing that he’s on my team.
My mom brings the pies out on a tray. Three of them. Hers. Aunt Lisa’s pecan. Stanley’s pumpkin.
“Stanley,” she says, in passing, “the lattice is beautiful. Did you do that yourself?”
“I had help on the lattice, ma’am.” Stanley, across the table. “The lattice is a team effort at our house.”
“Mm.” My mother, not looking up from the knife. “That’s how it should be.”
Beside me, Aunt Lisa says very dry, very low, “He didn’t bake that pie, sweetheart.”
“No, Aunt Lisa.”
“Mm.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “That’s fine.”
I look at my wine. I have eaten three bites of brisket, half a piece of cornbread, two green beans, and a small forkful of stuffing in ninety minutes, and the wine is landing harder than it has any business landing.
I push my chair back six inches. I fold my napkin and lay it on my plate.
“Mom. I’m going to run up for a minute.”
She looks up from the knife, mid-slice. She sees my face.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
I stand and don’t look at Stanley as I walk out.
I’m halfway down the upstairs hallway before I hear him on the stairs. I don’t turn around. I open my bedroom door and step inside. I cross to my bed and sit down on the edge of it.
There’s a soft knock at my door. “Linwood. Can I come in?”
I look over at him and nod.
He steps in and closes the door behind him with a very careful hand.
I put my face in my hands for one second, then realize what I’m doing. I shake myself from it and lift my head. I glance at him. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t sit. He crosses to my vanity and leans against it, arms folded, back to the mirror. He looks at me.
“Talk to me.”
His voice is soft, and I let the breath out of me. I don’t know if I want to say it, but it’s all too much in my head right now.
“All I ever wanted was for my father to be proud of me.”
