A slow fall

Chapter 32 - Lucas

    Zuri Joran was persistent; unwavering in her resolve to reach a goal she had her sight set on. It was both a help and a hindrance. A reassuring hand to motive and guide, but also a bulldozer, unrelenting in its need to invade—lovingly of course.

My love life was always something of an interest to her. She'd excuse it as a simple mothers curiosity, but Zuri had a habit of putting her nose where it didn't belong; sniffing out truths like a dog in search of food.

My lack of any long-term relationship made the prospect of being in one all the more exciting. Her insatiable curiosity would be more annoying if it wasn't slightly endearing to see how happy it made her, how much she buzzed with the prospect of someone other than me to dote on. Though she'd always loved the Wilkins boys, always doted on them and treated them like her own. That somehow made things worse.

Mom—with her unrelenting and meddlesome nature—rang me Monday evening with the joyous news that she'd organised a dinner with the family. Her soft words claimed innocence, but I knew better. She was scheming. It was easy for her to do—convince people to bend to her will. Her bubbly personality disarmed people enough that they let their guard slip. Then, like a viper, she'd strike.

I wasn't sure how she'd managed to convince the Wilkins to join us for dinner, but I knew she could do just about anything she set her mind to.

So, on Wednesday night I drove back to Murrayfield, back home. Together the three of us prepared dinner with the radio faintly playing in the background, songs from the 80s that dad would hum to, and when mum began to sway to the beat they'd dance together. Somewhere along the way I joined in too. All uncoordinated, off rhythm movements that were met with smiles and laughter.

When the time slowly drew near, the food finally cooked and our dance break just another happy memory, Mom tried to lighten the rising tension, "This should be nice."

I wasn't sure if she was trying to convince us or herself.

"Yeah, I guess." It was just dinner. What's the worst that could happen? A slightly racially driven argument? Been there, done that.

That's what I'd discovered, courtesy of my dad and his equally intense, and a lot more surprising, love for gossip.

When I was younger, dinners with the Wilkins used to happen almost once a month. I'd spend hours at their house with the boys and vice versa—brothers in everything but blood—so our parents were friends. Kind of.

The last Thursday of every month we alternated between houses, sharing a home cooked meal. They were chaotic nights filled with loud chatter, messy boys, and a palpable restless as we all itched to finish fast and carry on playing. I was too young to really notice the awkward pauses during the adult conversations; Too innocent to think about them being anything but friends like the four of us were.

Our joint family dinner, the fateful one that stopped them all, ended because they said something my parents couldn't easily forgive.

I asked if it had been resolved now, but mom just sent me an uneasy smile and said it wasn't good to hate and hold grudges.

"I still think this is a terrible idea." I told her, my gaze pleading for agreement.

"Nonsense," Zuri waved it off, "I haven't had a proper sit down with that family in a long time. It'll be nice to catch up." Dad's slight fidgeting told me this forced socialisation wasn't something he was all too fond of either.

"But-"

"Don't you argue with me, mister. It's just a nice family meal, what's so wrong with that?"

"Well-" Dad financially caved, his eyes flitted between me and mom in conflict, "Dinner with them? Do we have to?"