cozy cup

XII.

(chapter 12)

He pulled into the driveway at exactly 1:29 and was ringing the doorbell just as the clock struck 1:30. His hands were at his side, face neutral as he feigned relaxation. There was a tremor threatening to run through his muscles, but he pushed it back. He already had a feeling this meeting wasn't going to go well, and he didn't want any extra conflict on top of that.

The door opened and his mother's slim figure came into frame. She was dressed as she usually was, more for show than comfort, in a white dress that fell just a little past her knees and nude heels. Her hair was done up perfectly, makeup flawless. As it should have been, considering how long it took her to get ready every morning, moving between stylist and makeup artist, room from room as she talked on the phone.

If the walls of the house weren't as thick as they were or the house as large as it was, he was sure the frantic energy of it all would have been what woke him up every morning of his childhood. Instead, it was the cold air of his father, who woke him up at 6, on the dot, every morning, whether it be summer or a holiday. Owen hadn't even been able to pick out his own clothing until he finally moved out, and that might be why he wore comfortable clothes more often than not. The only thing he kept up from his childhood routine was the regular exercise.

"My baby!" his mom exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. Her heels clicked on the tiles of the foyer as she shifted inside, the door falling shut behind them. He had to bend down into the embrace, his arms around her shoulders as his head fell atop hers. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"Of course I could make it," he said, taking a step back and letting his eyes take in the large house he grew up in. White walls, marble tile and hardwood floors. Very few pictures lined the walls, but all of them were of the three of them. Mother, father, son.

One portrait in particular still hung above the fireplace in the living room, Owen's head turning to take it in as they passed it on their way to the dining room. Him and his mother sat shoulder to shoulder, his father looming over them from behind, one hand on Owen's shoulder, the other in the pocket of his black trousers. They had gotten the picture taken when Owen started high school, and he can still feel the pressure from his father's hand on his shoulder. Could still feel the grip, the way the blunt nails dug into his skin through the white button-up he was wearing. Remembered how hard it was to keep his expression neutral, how it was even harder to smile for the photographer.

He blinked the memory away, focusing instead on the image of his father sitting at the head of the dining table. He was in a suit, as per usual, the jacket unbuttoned to accommodate sitting in the chair. He was stiff, shoulders back to rest flat against the back of the chair, chin up despite the fact that he was looking at his phone. His father didn't look up as they entered. Not when Owen sat at his usual seat, the middle of the right side of the table. Not when his wife brought in each individual dish for lunch. Not when his glass of water was set in front of him. He didn't look up until his plate was made and set on the placemat in front of him, then Owen, then herself.

His mother sat down at the other end of the table, opposite his father, a smile on her face as she smoothed her napkin over her lap, waiting for his father to take the first bite. Owen sat, hands in his lap, fingers grasping the material of his pants, pale knuckles against soft black fabric. He always hated this part. He hated when they had family meals. How silent they were, the way his father controlled everything, didn't even spare either of them a glance. Owen was never so happy to not have any siblings than he was in that moment, as he sat with the quiet ringing in his ears and discomfort twisting in his belly.

Finally, a fork clinked against a plate. His father took a bite, chewing slowly, and nodded. They all ate in silence, the only sounds being metal on glass, sometimes a slightly too loud breath that had Owen holding his own and glancing over at his father. He only released the breath when his father simply continued eating, eyes firmly attached to the device in his hand.