Page 12 of Reclaimed Roots

A large lump of bread tried to stick in my throat. I swallowed hard and forced a tight smile. "Sorry. You say something?

"I asked if you've spoken with Natalie."

"Said 'hi' at the wake, but that's about it."

"That boyfriend of hers seems nice," Dad said.

Elliot snorted into his soup. "Dude's a fucking tool."

"Elliot Michael!" Mom scolded.

"Sorry, but he is."

I hid my smile behind my glass of lemonade.

The conversation about Natalie and her boyfriend continued, but I was barely listening. I pushed my half-eaten soup away, appetite gone.

"You okay, sweetie?" Mom's concerned gaze moved from me to my abandoned bowl. "You've hardly touched your food."

I shrugged. The movement felt so fucking heavy. "Just not that hungry, I guess."

Elliot shot me a look. "Sure it's not because we're talking about a certain someone?"

"Drop it," I snarled, my tone harsher than intended.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. After a moment, Dad cleared his throat. "So, El, how are things going with the new irrigation system in the east grove?"

"It's coming along. Should be fully operational by nextweek if those storms we're supposed to get hold off long enough. Glad we had the capital to invest in it."

As Dad and El fell into shop talk, I sensed Mom's worried eyes on me. I knew she meant well, but her concern just made me feel worse. I was eighteen all over again, acting like a grumpy, lovesick teenager when I had shit to do.

Suddenly, the kitchen felt stifling. I stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "Thanks for lunch, Mom. I should get back to work."

"But you've barely eat?—"

"I'm fine. Really. I just remembered something I need to take care of over in the barn."

"Okay. Can you do me a favor first?"

"What's that?"

"Drop off those tupperware containers to Nana and Papa for lunch?"

"Sure, no problem." Another lie. It was a big fucking problem. If I thought this lunch talking about Natalie was bad, it was about to be the Spanish fucking Inquisition with my nana.

Nana and Papa'sliving room was as cozy as ever, full of the comforting clutter of decades past. I slouched on the avocado-green couch and fidgeted with a crocheted throw pillow. The faint scent of apple pie wafted from the kitchen, rekindling my appetite.

"Well, did you talk to her?" Nana's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a paring knife.

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, boy."

I sighed, sinking deeper into the worn cushions. "No, Nana. I didn't talk to her."

"And why the hell not?"

"Nothing to say, I guess," I mumbled, tracing the pattern on the pillow with my thumb.

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