Page 14 of Delayed Penalty

“Didn’t youpart wayswith your last job too?” Matthew says beside me. With him being the one I’m closest to in age, you’d think we’d get along a lot better than we do, but we couldn’t be less alike. He’s the exactopposite of me. Luckily, his equally stuck-up girlfriend isn’t here to offer her words of wisdom, which she always hands out without prompting.

Meanwhile, my parents sit quietly watching me. Disappointment shines brightly in my father’s eyes, though I’m used to it, so whatever.

My mother, though? There’s no disappointment. There’s no annoyance. No frustration. There’s just indifference, and I’m not sure if I feel worse or better about that.

She turns to Daniel with a smile. “More mashed potatoes, dear? Made them from scratch myself this afternoon.”

Oh, okay. I guess we’re done with my thing now. On the one hand, I’m relieved. On the other, I’m a little upset. Does she even care that I was fired again? Is she at all surprised? Does she simply expect this out of me?

I stab my fork into my Brussels sprouts. I take a bite, chewing and swallowing with a grimace. No matter how old I get or how they’re cooked, I just cannot get behind these little green suckers. Still, I eat them, because I know my mother worked hard on this dinner, and I don’t want to upset her even more.

The conversation picks up around the table, and I do my best to tune everyone out, ignoring the not-so-subtle jabs from Matthew about his upcoming five-yearanniversary at his company and the disgusted glares from Liza whenever our eyes accidentally meet. It’s what always happens at family dinners. My siblings pile on me, then they act like I’m not even there. I guess that’s what happens when you’re the perpetual screwup—you get tossed aside and ignored.

I look over at the sole empty chair, the one that was occupied by Brody, my favorite brother, over the summer. If he were here right now, he’d tell them all off or start a fistfight with Matthew just to defend my honor. He’s always been like that, fiercely protective of me. I remember when I was six and he was ten, Brody found me crying in our treehouse because a kid from school teased me for having braces. The next day, the kid showed up with a black eye and an apology.

I wish he were here now, not to protect me or beat someone up, but just so I could havesomeoneon my side. With the season coming up so quickly, he’s already back in Tennessee to do what he was born to do—play hockey.

“Quinn?”

I snap my head up, surprised to find my mother staring down at me.

Huh. Guess I tuned my family out better than I thought.

“Would you like to help me with the dishes?”

Honestly, no. Who actuallywantsto do the dishes? But I know that’s not what she’s truly asking. She wantsa minute alone with me, and she knows as well as I do this is the only way she’ll get it with my other siblings here since they aren’t about to help clean up.

“Of course.” I rise from my chair, grabbing my plate and then Matthew’s. He doesn’t thank me, so I make sure to walk extra close and “accidentally” elbow him in the head.

“Ouch! Brat,” he says to my back, but I ignore him and continue following my mother into her spacious kitchen.

When she and Dad moved out this way two years ago, the one thing my mother wanted more than anything was a kitchen big enough to comfortably accommodate all six of her children. I’d say she got her wish with the sprawling space that fits an island, a commercial refrigerator, and not one buttwowalk-in pantries. My entire apartment is the size of her kitchen, but she deserves it and more after raising six children while my father worked absurdly late hours.

I scrape the leftover food from the plates into the trash while she fills the sink and gets the dishes ready. Sure, she has a big, fancy dishwasher, but she refuses to use it when we have these family dinners. She says this is our quality time. I fear this is going to feel a lot less like quality time and more like lecture time. I pull a butterscotch candy from my pocket and pop it into my mouth because I suspect I’m going to need that too.

When she grabs the first plate and her sponge, I step up beside her, taking my usual spot—me drying while she washes—and hold my breath, waiting for what’s coming next.

“So,” she begins, then there’s a long pause. It’s the kind of pause that makes the hamster that lives in your brain start running on his little wheel, letting all the questions you don’t really want answers to start spinning around. “I noticed you walked instead of driving. Everything okay?”

I exhale heavily. It’s not at all the question I was expecting, but I’ll take telling her my car woes over explaining why I got fired yet again any day. The last thing I want is to have to explain to my mother I lost my job because I slept with my engaged boss.

“The Bug is out of commission again.”

She frowns, scrubbing the plate in her hands extra hard. “Hmm. Want your father to take a look at it?”

Our eyes meet, and we burst into laughter, and the tension I’ve been holding all day eases just a smidge. We both know my father, who is far more adept with technology than anything hands-on, would have no clue what he’s looking at were he to pop the hood of my car.

“Nah. I had it towed directly to the shop.” I grab the clean plate from her hand, running the dish towelover it. “Cost me an arm, a leg,anda pinky, but it’s there.”

She’s back to frowning. “Do you?—”

I hold my hand up, stopping her, because I know exactly what she’s about to say—Do you need money?

“I’m good,” I tell her, continuing to rub at the plate that’s so dry it’s squeaking. “If I need help, I’ll let you know.”

But Iwon’tlet her know, and we both know that too. The truth is, I doneed money.Bad.I just don’t needtheirmoney. It was embarrassing enough the first, second, third, and fourth time, but I’m not letting there be a fifth. I can’t. Iwon’t.

Mom scrubs and rinses a few more plates, and I dry them, that tension I’ve been holding since I was fired creeping back into my neck and shoulders as the strained silence fills the kitchen.

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