Page 7 of New Growth
“I said I’m fine.”
Johnathan studied me. “You’re not acting fine.”
I turned to him, my patience wearing thin. “He’s been dead less than a week. Can I have some room to mourn him how I want? Can you both not tear into me about how I handle my father’s death for five minutes?”
Silence fell over the table.
Then, Ryan smirked. “Exaggerating Elliot.”
Johnathan snickered, and I stood immediately.
“Baby, come on now,” Johnathan said, reaching for my wrist. “She’s only playing.”
I ignored him, pushed away from the table, and headed straight for the kitchen. It was a much-needed escape.
The moment I was alone, I let out a shaky breath.
Then, I pulled open the pantry door. My eyes swept the shelves—canned goods, spices, an old box of cereal—until I spotted it.
The cognac bottle Daddy ‘hid’ from me. Half full and still hidden behind a bag of flour like a dirty little secret. My fingers hovered over it, and my throat burned with the thought. I wasn’t much of a drinker, usually just a glass of wine at dinner. But after the day I’ve had, a sip was much needed. I reached for the bottle, my fingers curling around the cool glass. My pulse quickened.
Just one sip. Just enough to take the edge off.
I twisted off the cap and raised it to my lips. The first taste burned, settling deep in my chest. I exhaled slowly, letting it spread through me, numbing the sharp edges of my thoughts.
Okay, maybe another sip.
After another quick swig, my shoulders relaxed, and my heartbeat slowed. I see why this was a vice he didn’t let go of. When he was alive, I would throw out his bottles all the time. It would always start an argument:“I’m the parent, Elliot, not you!”
It was all pointless, anyway. He’d just replace them or visit a bar while I was at work. So, like an idiot, I pretended not to see it.
Buried beneath old barbecue cookbooks and unused baking sheets was Daddy’s apron. I pulled it out, pressing the worn fabric to my face.
It still smelled like him. Sandalwood and smoke.
Either from the grill or from his cigars.
Whenever he grilled, I was in charge of the sides. Over the years, I got pretty good at cooking because of him. Sunday dinners were just the two of us for years. Now, for the first time, I was having one without him, in his house that was full of people who hadn’t even checked on him when he was sick.
I tried to handle it with grace. Daddy didn’t like it when I got all worked up.
“Let people be people,” he’d say when I complained. “You’re in charge of Elliot. And that’s it. Make that your focus.”
Daddy, I’m trying. Lord knows I am.
I took another sip.
“What are you doing in here?” Ma’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.
I quickly wiped my moist eyes and turned to her. “I was just—”
She frowned as she gestured to the apron. “And why are you wrapped up in that sweaty old thing?”
I hesitated. “I—”
“Whatever. Come on,” she said, waving me forward. “Bishop James is about to say grace.”
I hung Daddy’s apron back on its hook, placed the bottle of cognac on the counter, and followed her into the dining room once again.
