Page 200 of Tangled Like Us
Tonight, as far as I know, is more of a traditional Wednesday night dinner. No new rules.
“Opening remarks have commenced,” my mom announces, lowering in unison with my dad onto the velveteen chairs.
This time is occupied for us to share our lives. Or not. It’s up to each person.
I intake a breath. Ignoring the sinking pit.
Eliot grabs the moment first. He almost always does. Rising to his feet, climbing onto his chair—and like an orchestrated play, we all reach for our goblets. Eliot pounds his boot to the lip of the table.
Rattling the dishes.
He bows forward, elbow to his knee. “I’d like to talk of deception.”
I frown behind my mask. My heart quickening. Eliot will most often quote a play and use up his time with someone else’s words.
His intense gaze sweeps the table. “To be able to deceive…” He looks directly at me for an extended beat. Emotion bleeding through his eyes. “You need to know where the lie is at all times. So as not to deceive yourself.”
I sip my water, hand frozen on my goblet.
“Was thatMacbeth?” Ben asks.
“No,” everyone says.
Eliot stands up further onto the table, the surface quaking. “It was an Eliot Alice Cobalt original. This is Macbeth.” He takes a puff from the pipe. “‘Away!’” His blue eyes pulse with raw feeling. “‘False face must hide what the false heart doth know.’”
Breath traps in my lungs as those words pool into me.
Tom snaps his fingers.
Possibly, his speech was all coincidence and I’m suffering from severe paranoia.
Eliot takes a single step backward, not even looking. His boot lands on the cushion of his seat and he sits down on the top frame.
All the while, Tom grips the chair so it won’t tip over.
Eliot has broken many chairs throughout our childhood. He’s a six-four strong-built nineteen-year-old. And right now, he roots his gaze on me.
I don’t turn away. “Do you wish to ask me something?”
“No, dear sister.” He looks to Tom. “Dear brother.”
“Dear brother.” Tom quickly rises and stands triumphantly on a chair. He often talks of music and issues in his band. I’m waiting for him to mention a recent dilemma. How his drummer has quit, right before The Carraways were recording an EP.
Tom hoists his goblet of liquor. “Fear.”
I breathe harder. They can’t be speaking to me.
He scans the table like Eliot had done. “The feeling that lets you know you’re alive.” He puts the goblet to his lips just as Eliot slings open a Zippo lighter. Flame in his hand.
Tom blows liquor at the fire, and I feel the heat of the amassed blaze, sputtering out as quickly as it came.
One dinner in the past, Eliot lit the entire tablecloth on fire, purposefully. Their show tonight is entirely normal.
Except for the fact that Tom pins his eyes to mine.
My lips part, confusion and some other sentiment ascending. I try to understand.
Part of me is afraid to.
