Page 29 of Coach's Temptation

"It's not done, Harold! The meat thermometer doesn't lie!"

"For Christ's sake, Martha, it's been in there for two hours!"

Their voices carry through the front door, across the yard, and straight into my car. I bang my head against the headrest.Fuck.Some things never change.

I grab my overnight bag and trudge up the walkway, each step feeling heavier than the last. The argument grows louder with every inch closer to the door.

"I told you the roast needed five more minutes!"

"And I told you it's FINE! You think Gordon Ramsay is about to waltz in here and judge us? It's just Natalie, for Christ's sake, woman."

I pause at the threshold, inhale deeply, and count backward from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—

A crash from inside, followed by Mom's shrill, "Now look what you made me do!"

Screw it.

I push open the door to find Mom wielding a meat thermometer like a weapon while Dad stands at the counter, arms crossed, jaw set. The kitchen timer beeps incessantly in the background, ignored by both of them.

My bag hits the floor with a thud. Neither of them notice.

"The potatoes are cold now anyway," Dad mutters.

"Well, if you hadn't insisted on serving everything exactly at six—"

I lean against the wall and wonder, not for the first time, why I put myself through this. Twenty-seven years of the same script, different day. If I ever settle for this kind of marriage, someone slap me with a meat thermometer.

My mother spots me and gasps like I’ve just returned from war.

“Oh my God, Natalie, look at you! Did youwalkhere?”

Before I can answer, she’s already fussing, hands flapping, ushering me toward the kitchen like I need immediate medical attention.

"Mom, it's just damp. Everything at home is damp."

Dad, barely glances up from where he’s slicing into the roast. “She’s fine, Martha. Probably just didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Mom glares at him. “Unlikeyou, Harold, my daughter knows how to plan ahead.”

“Clearly not,” he grumbles, pointing the carving knife at me. “Weren't you listening on the phone? Herceilingjust caved in.”

I groan, peeling off my damp hoodie as I follow my mother into the kitchen. “Can we not—”

“Oh, wewill,” Mom cuts me off, hands on her hips. “What the hell happened, Natalie? My mother left you a perfectly good apartment, and now—” She gestures wildly, like my mere existence has personally offended the foundation of the building.

There it is. The blame. Right on cue.

Dad, unfazed, plops a thick slice of roast onto a serving plate. “Martha, let her eat before you interrogate her. Jesus.”

Mom huffs but waves me toward the table, and I slump into my usual seat, muscles already aching from the tension.

At least the food is good.

Perfectly buttered rolls, mashed potatoes so fluffy they could double as clouds, roast beef dripping with rich, peppery gravy. Say what you want about my parents, but my mom’s cooking? Absolute religion.

I take a bite, let out an involuntary moan, and Dad smirks. “See? Perfectly cooked. Just like I said.”

Mom shoots him a look so sharp it could cut through the roast.

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