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Looking directly at us, she puts both hands on her hips as she always does when giving an order. “Now listen, I don’t want to hear no bickering tonight, ya hear?”
“But—” Evan tries to interrupt.
“No!” She’s quick to cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. Your father will be home any minute, and I want us to have a nice dinner together,” she states sternly, then turns back around to give the chicken in the hot sizzling pan her attention.
Quietly, the three of us help unpack the grocery bags. We set everything on the table before Mama directs us where to stock it all. After growing up in this house, I know where most things belong, but she has a “system” that she makes us abide by.
Just as she’s mixing the homemade mashed potatoes, John—Jackson’s twin—and Dad walk through the back door. I hear the clomping of his boots against the wood floor before I see him. Once they’re in the kitchen and see us all, he places his hat on the table before glancing over at Evan. “Y’all finish placing the poles?”
“All are set with cement. Just need to paint tomorrow,” Evan tells him.
“Good,” Dad says, walking to the fridge and filling a cup with ice and water.
As Mama tells us to set the table, Dylan tells everyone bye.
“You sure you don’t want to stay? I got plenty for you too,” Mama tells him.
“I’d better get home. If I miss dinner again this week, my mother may disown me,” Dylan explains, shrugging.
“Yeah, we know how mamas can be.” I look over at Mom with an overly sweet smile on my face.
“Yeah, you’d better get going then.” Mama gives him a side hug, and he leaves.
Mama finishes up dinner while John and I set the table. We carry in the dishes of chicken, potatoes, and cornbread and set them on the long wood dining table that’s a family keepsake.
Once everything is ready, we all take our seats and sit around the table like a big, happy family. Dad says grace as per tradition, then Mama plates his food. Once everyone has what they need, John makes small talk about the B&B and how booked it is for the next eight weeks. Dad then informs us about the hay bales that need to be picked up from the fields on the east side of the property and stored in the barn. This is how most dinner conversations go when I stay. The Bishops are workaholics and talk shop all day and night.
I’m nervous about asking Dad for time off, but I know that if I’m going on that trip in a couple weeks, I need to tell him in advance. That’s the only bad thing about working for your parents. They aren’t afraid to say no.
“Dad,” I mumble over all the voices. As the table quiets, I continue. “You think it’d be possible for me to take a few of my vacation days soon?” I ask. It’s so still in the room, all I can hear is Jackson’s loud ass chewing.
“Hmm,” he says, barely looking up at me. “When’re ya thinkin’?”
I glance at Mama for a moment, wondering if she’ll back me up or not. “About two weeks from now.”
He nods as he continues shoveling food onto his fork. “For how long?”
I clear my throat, swallowing hard. “Um, well. I’d need two weeks.”
“For what?” John asks, but his question gets ignored.
Dad shakes his head without even taking a second to think it over. “You know we still have things to do before the holidays and—”
“Scott,” Mama interrupts Dad by using his first name, which always means business. “I think it would be perfectly fine for you to take off, son.” My brows shoot up into my hairline, shocked at her words. “Alex works hard and deserves a break. Besides, Jackson can rearrange his schedule so he and Dylan can take care of your daily chores till you get back.”
“Seriously?” Jackson groans, glaring at me.
“Well, actually…” I swallow hard before continuing. “Dylan needs off, too. There’s a trip we’d like to go on.”
“Absolutely not,” Dad snaps, taking a sip of sweet tea. “That’s far too much to rearrange. I can’t have two men out at the same time.” His words are final, and I know there’s no point in arguing.
Mama clears her throat, an obvious signal for Dad. He looks over at her, and they hold a silent conversation as Mama purses her lips and raises an eyebrow. When she gets that look on her face, we all know it’s her way or the highway, even when it comes to Dad.
He clears his throat before taking another sip of his drink. “We’ll handle it,” he finally mumbles, but I can tell he isn’t happy about it.
Jackson mouths a, “You suck,” to me when I look at him, and all I can do is smile because I’m going to Key-motherfucking-West for two weeks, and there’s nothing that asshole can do about it.
