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We sit in silence at the kitchen table until we’ve both finished our alcohol. Neither of us pours a third.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Marcus finally says. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“I know,” I say. My vibrant, full of life sister is dead. The reality hasn’t set in yet.
I shift my gaze to meet his and feel the same fire between us from before we got the call that changed our lives. I don’t break the stare, but Marcus does.
“Are you hungry? We never got the chance to eat at the party…”
“Leave it to Jane to interrupt a party before the food was served.”
Marcus chuckles. “It’s almost like she planned it that way. She hated watching people eat.”
“I know.”
“So what do you say? I’m sure there’s something in your parents’ cabinets that I can whip up.”
“I’m not too hungry, but I would eat some if you made something.”
Marcus shuffles through the cabinets until he finds a jar of sauce and a box of pasta. “Spaghetti?”
“Sounds good,” I say. “I’m going to go get changed.”
“Wait,” he says. “Stay in that dress. It looks good on you.”
I should argue and say that it’s inappropriate for me to stay in this dress and that he shouldn’t say things like that, but I don’t. I revel in his compliment. If I’m being honest, I’m too exhausted to go to my room and change anyways. Food is probably a good idea. I could use the nourishment.
“How about another drink?” I ask tentatively.
“I like that idea much better.”
I prepare our drinks while Marcus finishes up the pasta. He sets down two plates on the counter and I hand him his bourbon. He holds the glass up towards me. “To Jane,” he says. We clink our glasses together and take a sip.
Our meal continues silently. It’s just spaghetti and sauce, but it’s some of the best pasta I’ve ever tasted. I guess I was hungrier than I thought. I finish all of the food on my plate in no time.
“Not hungry, eh?” Marcus remarks playfully when he sees my clean plate. There’s still a pile of spaghetti in front of him. Thankfully, the room is dimly lit so he can’t see the pink on my cheeks. I can’t believe I ate so quickly! He must think I’m a pig. Jane never would have eaten like that. She pecked like a bird and never finished a plate of food.
“I guess I eat when I’m stressed. And it was really good,” is my compliment.
Marcus puts a hand on mine. “You don’t have to justify yourself. I shouldn’t have teased you.”
“It’s fine.” I look at his full plate. “Are you not going to eat?”
He takes a dramatic bite of the spaghetti. “I guess I don’t eat when I’m stressed. I need to, though. I haven’t had anything to eat today. I skipped breakfast and lunch.”
“How were you even still standing?” I ask, flabbergasted.
Marcus shrugs. “I guess I don’t need much to survive.”
I wish I didn’t need much to survive. I like eating far too much to go the entire day without a meal. Probably explains my wide hips and poochy stomach. The judgmental looks bother me, just not enough to change my eating habits. I’m happy with my body just the way it is.
“Eat,” I say, nodding to Marcus’s plate. “You need food.”
He nods, and takes another, less dramatic, forkful of the pasta. While he slowly eats his plateful, I work on cleaning the dishes. There’s some spaghetti left in the pot, so I toss it into a container to save for tomorrow. I doubt my parents will be able to stomach anything, but at least it’ll be there in case they’re up for food by lunchtime.
My poor parents. It was no secret that Jane was their favorite daughter, and now she’s gone and I’m all they’ve got left. How unfortunate for them.
Marcus interrupts my thoughts when he tosses his empty plate into the sink. “I ate it all. Are you proud?”
I chuckle. “Very proud. Good job. Now you can have dessert.”
“Dessert?” he asks.
I shrug. “I was patronizing you, but there may be ice cream in the freezer.”
He takes the sponge from my hand when I’m in the middle of washing the spaghetti pot. “Why don’t you grab us each another drink, find that ice cream you promised, and meet me in the living room?”
“I don’t mind cleaning up,” I hesitate. But he won’t take no for an answer.
“I’ve got it, Kelsey. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Sighing, I decide it’s not worth the argument. Two drinks, two spoons, and a carton of ice cream in hand, I walk into the living room to the soundtrack of Marcus scrubbing the sauce covered pans and dishes. He must have been a perfect husband because how many men wash dishes after dinner? Immediately, I feel guilty because I shouldn’t even be thinking these thoughts.
