Chapter 3 #3
Then my mother says, casually, like she is commenting on the weather, voice deceptively light: “And who is this with?”
My heart kicks once, hard against my ribs. My fork scrapes softly against my plate. The sound too loud in the weighted silence that follows her question.
“It is a benefit run,” I say, choosing the safest answer first, focusing on function rather than personnel. “Multiple organizations and charities. Supporting arts education, health initiatives.”
“That is lovely,” my mother says with practiced warmth. “And who is headlining with you? Anyone we would know?”
There it is. It would be foolish of me to think she doesn’t know. It’s all over the news, on every music blog, in every entertainment magazine. No, she wants me to say it. She wants to watch my face when I do.
She watches me with polite interest, her eyes too sharp for the softness of her smile, a predator dressed in Sunday best.
My father pauses his chewing, gaze sliding toward me, fork suspended halfway to his plate.
Cyaire’s eyes flick between all of us, alert to the currents of tension running beneath the tablecloth.
I keep my face still. I keep my breathing even. I keep my voice level.
“Malik Carter,” I say nonchalantly, as if the name means nothing, as if it doesn’t stick in my throat like a fishbone.
My mother makes a sound. A quiet hum of disapproval that vibrates in the back of her throat.
My father’s brows lift, silverware lowering to his plate. “Malik Carter.”
“Yep,” I confirm, forcing myself to take another bite of food.
My mother’s mouth tightens, corners pulling down slightly before she smooths them. “Well. That is something.”
“It’s business,” I say, the phrase tasting like metal in my mouth, cold and artificial.
My father leans back slightly in his chair, chewing slower, assessing. “That boy is everywhere these days.”
My mother’s eyes sharpen with something like judgment, moral certainty hardening her features. “Everywhere. Half dressed. Acting. . .loose. Like he has something to prove.”
Cyaire snorts softly, and my mother cuts him a look sharp enough to slice paper.
“I am just saying,” she continues, focusing back on me. “It is not a good look. For anyone. Especially not someone raised right.”
“It is not my concern,” I say, each word measured, careful.
My father gives a quiet laugh, devoid of humor. “You always say that. But it becomes your concern when you are standing next to it. When your name appears beside his. When people start to associate you with. . .that lifestyle.”
My stomach twists, acid rising. I take a sip of water to push it down.
My mother sets her fork down and dabs her mouth with her napkin, taking her time, a performance of delicacy. “Do you remember his mother?”
Of course I do. My throat tightens at the memory, sharp and painful.
“Yes,” I say simply.
Mave’s voice softens slightly, genuine emotion breaking through her performance. “That poor woman. She tried so hard.”
My father nods solemnly. “Cancer, right? Such a shame.”
“Breast cancer,” my mother says, shaking her head.
“Ten years ago, she passed, God rest her soul. It does not even feel that long ago. She worked so hard. Tried so hard to raise him right. Tried so hard to keep him out of trouble. All those extra shifts at the hospital. All those church programs she got him into.”
I stare at my plate, suddenly unable to look at any of them.
I can see Malik’s mother in my mind like a photograph, preserved perfectly despite the years. Warm eyes. Tired smile. Hands always busy, always moving. She used to press extra food into our hands after practice because she said boys needed to eat, needed fuel for growing bodies and active minds.
She used to tell Malik to stand up straight. To speak properly. To stop acting like the world owed him something. To respect his gifts. To be humble in his talents.
If she could see him now.
My mother’s voice carries the thought without saying it directly, implication heavy in her tone. “If she had lived. . .I wonder what she would think.”
My father exhales, a sound of judgment disguised as sympathy. “She would not like this mess. Not one bit. She was a good, church-going woman.”
“This mess,” my mother repeats, gesturing vaguely with manicured fingers as if Malik is a concept instead of a person, an abstract moral failing rather than flesh and blood.
“All this attention. All that sleeping around with men. Pictures of him all over the internet with who knows who. People are talking. The ladies at church were saying he posted a video with his shirt off again, playing that saxophone like he’s in some kind of. . .establishment.”
Cyaire mutters, “Oh my God,” under his breath, disbelief evident in his tone.
My mother snaps her gaze to him, sharp as a whip. “Do not be disrespectful, Cy. Not in this house.”
“I am not being disrespectful, Ma,” he says, voice too smooth, a perfect imitation of politeness. “I just do not understand why the ladies at church are watching his videos if they find them so offensive.”
My father’s lips twitch, a brief flash of amusement he quickly suppresses. “Cyaire.”
“I am serious,” he says, lifting his brows in feigned innocence. “If they are clutching their pearls about how scandalous he is, why are they watching him dance around without a shirt on?”
My mother’s eyes narrow, sensing the challenge beneath his words. “Because it is everywhere. You cannot avoid it. It comes up on the computer, on the television. They aren’t seeking it out.”
Cyaire looks at me across the table. His expression says he knows that is a lie, that you have to actively search for these things, that outrage requires effort.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from losing it, from breaking the careful composure I’ve maintained ever since I arrived.
My father turns his attention back to me, voice shifting to something more personal. “You two were close once back in school.”
I feel the words like a bruise being pressed, a dull ache spreading beneath the surface.
“Yes, that was years ago,” I say, offering nothing more.
My mother tilts her head, curiosity sharpening her gaze. “I always wondered why that ended. You were inseparable for years, then suddenly nothing.”
I do not answer. I focus on cutting my chicken into smaller and smaller pieces.
She does not need my answer. She is already building her own narrative, crafting a story that fits her worldview.
“Well,” she says, voice smoothing into something that tries to sound kind but lands as condescension.
“Maybe it was for the best. People like that bring trouble. Negative attention. To think he got into Julliard and you didn’t after all your hard work.
What a waste of opportunity. You have worked too hard for your name to be dragged into anything unsavory. ”
Dragged into anything.
The words hit hard because they are not just about Malik.
They are about me.
About what they would do if they knew.
If they understood who their son really is beneath the performance.
My father nods, conviction firm in his expression. “You were raised different. With standards.”
My mother’s smile returns, bright and practiced, a beacon of certainty. “We raised you right. To respect yourself. To have boundaries.”
There it is. The line they always come back to. The distinction that matters most to them. The barrier between acceptable and unacceptable. Between loved and cast out.
My father takes another bite, chewing slowly, fork scraping against his plate. “So, you are going to be on stage with him. Sharing billing.”
“Not exactly. I’m opening for him,” I say, the clarification feeling like a minor betrayal even as I offer it.
My mother’s eyes flick over me like she is checking for stains, for contamination. “Just keep it professional. You do not need to be around all that. All those. . .influences. Those people. Just do your job and come home.”
Cyaire’s knee bumps mine under the table, a small warning. Do not let them do this. Do not let them reduce a human being to a moral failure. Do not let them talk about someone you once loved as if he is a disease.
My mother’s voice shifts, as if she has said enough about Malik and now wants to move on to more important things, her tone brightening artificially.
“So,” she says, smile sweet as saccharine, “are you seeing anyone special these days?”
The fork in my hand goes still, halfway between plate and mouth.
My father looks up again, interest piqued, watching me with sudden attention.
Cyaire’s eyes sharpen, his posture tensing imperceptibly.
I keep my face smooth. I keep my voice calm. I keep my breathing steady.
“No.”
My mother makes a disappointed noise, a soft click of her tongue against her teeth. “Julian. You are thirty-five years old.”
“I am aware,” I reply, setting my fork down with careful precision.
My father clears his throat, the sound carrying weight. “You cannot work like this forever. Music is not everything.”
My mother leans forward slightly, lowering her voice like this is intimate, like we are conspirators rather than adversaries.
“We are not asking you to bring someone to the church tomorrow. We are not asking for anything fancy. But you need to think about your future. About family. About what comes next when the music fades.”
Family. The word presses against my ribs like weight, like pressure building inside a sealed container.
My father nods, agreeing without hesitation. “A good woman. A home. Children. Legacy. Something that lasts beyond concert halls.”
My mother smiles wider, animated by the vision she’s creating. “You are not getting any younger. I need grandbabies. Your cousins are all giving me great-nieces and nephews. What am I supposed to tell them when they ask about you? That goes for you too, Cyaire.”
Cyaire’s hand tightens around his fork, knuckles whitening with tension only I can see.