Chapter 3 #2
Fred Reed sits in his recliner, remote in hand like a scepter, eyes fixed on the screen watching his favorite hockey team, The Seattle Vipers, with the concentration of a general plotting strategy.
He does not look up right away. He does not have to.
His presence fills the room like an anchored weight, demanding acknowledgment without requiring visual confirmation.
When he finally turns his head, his gaze lands on me, steady and assessing, taking in every detail from my haircut to my shoes.
“Son,” he says, like the word is both greeting and command, a reminder of my place in the hierarchy.
“Dad,” I respond, meeting his eyes but not challenging the authority in them.
He nods once, satisfied with whatever inspection he’s conducted. “You eating with us?”
My mother makes a noise of disapproval, a sharp click of her tongue. “Of course he is. He came all this way. He is eating with us. Why would you ask such a thing?”
My father’s mouth twitches like he might be amused by her indignation. “Just checking. Never know with musicians. Always running off to some gig or another.”
I take off my shoes by the door, the way I was taught from childhood, and move further into the house, feeling the plush carpet beneath my socked feet. Another small comfort that feels like stepping back in time.
The dining table is set already, meticulous and formal.
My mother’s good plates, the ones with the gold rim that only come out for company and holidays.
Cloth napkins folded into neat triangles beside heavy silverware that gleams in the light from the chandelier.
Candles unlit in the center like props waiting for their cue, promising warmth they won’t deliver.
There is a vase of fresh flowers. White lilies with their heavy scent and somber associations.
Funeral flowers. Oh boy. I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this. Flowers are never a good sign, especially not these. White lilies mean something important needs to be discussed, something solemn, something that requires formality.
I swallow and look away, pretending not to have noticed the significance.
“You look tired,” my mother says, following me toward the kitchen. Her voice is light. Observational. Not quite concern, more like noting a flaw that should be corrected.
“I have been working,” I reply, trying not to yawn as the word itself triggers my body’s awareness of its exhaustion.
“You are always working,” she replies, her tone suggesting this is a character defect rather than dedication. “That is why you look like that. You need rest. And proper meals. Are you eating vegetables? You look pale.”
Rest is a luxury. Rest is for people whose careers do not depend on precision and silence. Rest is for those who can afford to let their guard down.
In the kitchen, my mother moves like she is conducting an orchestra, each movement deliberate and practiced.
Pots on the stove bubbling with perfect timing.
A tray in the oven browning to exact specifications.
A bowl of salad on the counter, each ingredient cut to uniform size.
She checks everything, adjusts everything, makes the work look effortless while controlling every variable.
Then she pauses and glances toward the hallway, head tilting to listen for movement upstairs.
“Cyaire,” she calls, her voice carrying through the house with practiced authority. “Your brother is here.”
There is movement upstairs, then footsteps coming down, quick and light, unlike my father’s measured tread or my own careful steps.
Cyaire appears in the doorway with a grin that feels like sunlight breaking through cloud cover after days of rain.
He is taller than me, built like our father with the same long limbs and broad shoulders that fill the doorframe with easy confidence.
His complexion is lighter than mine, warm brown leaning toward honey in this afternoon light that streams through the kitchen window.
His hair is a tight curl fade, neat but not too neat, fashion-conscious without being fussy.
His eyes are the same as mine. Dark. Observant, and too aware for his own good.
My baby brother misses nothing, sees everything, understands more than anyone gives him credit for.
He takes one look at me and rolls his eyes like we are still kids sharing silent jokes across the dinner table. I love him with a fierceness that sometimes takes me by surprise.
“You came,” he says, like I have surprised him, though the warmth in his voice says he never doubted.
“I said I would,” I repeat again, the phrase becoming my mantra for the day.
He steps in and hugs me quickly, one arm around my shoulders, a brotherly squeeze that is more genuine than anything else in this house, free of the performance that tinges every other interaction.
“You look like you have not slept in a week,” he murmurs near my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“I am fine,” I reassure him, the lie so practiced it almost sounds convincing.
He pulls back, eyebrows lifting in silent challenge, because he doesn’t believe the lie I just told. He never has. Even as a child he could spot my carefully constructed facades, seeing through walls I thought were impenetrable.
My mother claps her hands once, the sound sharp and commanding. “Okay. Everyone, wash up. Food is almost ready. Cyaire, get the iced tea from the refrigerator.”
My father calls from the living room without looking away from the television, his voice carrying with the confidence of someone who knows he’ll be obeyed. “I am not washing up. I am already clean.”
“Fred,” my mother snaps, irritation flashing across her features, and then smooths her tone when she turns back to me, switching emotions like changing channels. “Go wash your hands, Julian.”
I do it because it is easier. Because some battles aren’t worth fighting. Because I learned long ago which hills to die on, and hand-washing before dinner isn’t one of them.
In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror as the water runs hot over my hands.
My face is calm. My eyes are steady. The lines of my expression are practiced, a mask fitted so perfectly even I sometimes forget it’s there.
The man looking back at me could be anyone.
A successful musician. A dutiful son. A man with nothing to hide.
“Just be calm. Don’t let them get to you,” I say quietly, the words barely audible over the running water. I reach for a towel, dry my hands carefully and go back to the dining room, shoulders squared, expression neutral.
Dinner starts the way it always does. Food passed around in a clockwise rotation. Plates filled according to an unspoken hierarchy of importance. My mother watching like a hawk to make sure everyone takes enough, judging the amount on each plate against her internal standards.
My father says grace, voice deep and sure, hands clasped in front of his plate, head bowed but back straight.
“Thank you, Lord, for this food and this family,” he says the prayer he’s recited for decades. “Thank you for the blessings you have given us. For my boys. Keep us safe. Keep us guided. Amen.”
“Amen,” we echo, the word automatic on my tongue.
I do not miss the way my mother’s eyes flick toward me when he says guided, a quick, sharp glance loaded with meaning.
Guided, to them, means straight lines. Correct lines. Traditional lines. Lines that lead to church and marriage and children and respectability that can be displayed like trophies.
My mother smiles once everyone starts eating, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly as forks meet plates. “So,” she begins, as if she has not been waiting for this all week, rehearsing questions in her mind. “How are things, Julian?”
I swallow a bite of chicken slowly, buying time, tasting nothing but ash on my tongue despite the perfect seasoning. “Fine.”
My father snorts, a sound of familiar disappointment. “Fine. That is all you ever say. Since you were a teenager. Fine. Like pulling teeth to get anything out of you.”
“I’ve had a few meetings, rehearsals, that sort of thing,” I reply, elaborating slightly to prevent further prodding.
My mother waves a hand dismissively, rings catching the light. “Do not be difficult. We want to know. You are going on tour, yes? Eli told me you have something big coming up.”
My fork stills briefly against the plate. Damn it, Eli told her. I shouldn’t be shocked by this, of course he did. My manager knows how to manage more than just my career.
My mother does not like to be surprised. Eli understands that. He knows how to keep her manageable, how to release information in controlled doses to prevent explosions.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone even. “There is a tour. Starting soon.”
Cyaire’s foot taps under the table, impatiently, eyes dancing back and forth between my mother and me, excitement radiating from him in barely contained waves.
He loves the idea of touring. He loves movement.
He loves chaos. He is young enough to think it is freedom rather than another form of confinement.
My mother’s eyes brighten with interest, genuine pride mixing with the opportunity to gather information. “Where are you going? Somewhere important, I hope.”
“First leg is the U.S. Then Europe,” I say, the words clinical, detached, as if I’m reading from an itinerary rather than describing months of my life.
My father nods as if this is expected, nothing less than what a son of his should achieve. “Good. Europe appreciates talent. Always have. They understand what real music is.”
My mother smiles with him, united in this assessment. “Exactly. Those people know culture. Not like here where they just want noise and spectacle.”
I chew methodically and let them have that, let them believe Europe is a monolith of refined taste rather than a continent as complex and varied as any other.