troubled | e.d.

three

tessa

i angrily spear my steak as i continue on with my story. "and he said go fetch, dad!"

he 'mhmm's, which is what he does when he's not necessarily listening. instead, all of his attention is on the phone in his lap, not the food on his plate.

"are you listening?" i snap my fingers, still outraged.

his head jolts up. "no, sorry. what?"

"the ethan kid," i scoff, sinking down in my chair.

his eyes suddenly shift to dark, serious. "what did he say to you?"

"n-nothing, really," i stutter out. "he just—"

"is he bothering you?"

"relax! jeez! you don't listen to me for an entire 15 minute story and then when you do, you're all protective and weird about it."

"sorry," he shakes his head a little, picking up his fork and beginning to push the asparagus around his plate. "i just..."

"you just what, dad?" i question.

"nothing. how's the steak?"

"hang on— i want to know what ethan's doing at the firm. does he work there? intern? family friend?"

"none of your business," he replies, popping a forkful into his mouth.

"why?"

"what goes on behind closed doors has no concern of yours."

i raise an eyebrow. "so there's closed doors? what's he hiding?"

"tessa—"

"is he a felon?"

"no—"

"murderer? kidnapper? kidnappee?"

"tessa!" he raises his voice, silencing me and rattling the salt and pepper shakers on the table. "enough."

i frown, reaching for my water glass. "i just wish he wasn't so... standoffish. he seems about my age. we could be friends, dad!"

he sets down his fork, leaning across the table and giving me a firm look. "you are not to associate with ethan. don't speak to him even if you are spoken to. don't look at him even if he looks at you. and do not get caught up with him."

"okay," i say quietly, a little shaken. he rarely every speaks to me this seriously, so i know he means business.

his face softens a little, and he motions down to my plate. "did i overcook the asparagus?"

"a little, but it's still good," i quickly reassure.

he sighs, defeated. my mom was always the cook, and since she left he's been trying to get a hang of the kitchen, but just can't even after six years.

"i'll try again tomorrow with the—" the doorbell rings, stopping his sentence.

"i'll get it," he rises from his chair and places his napkin on the table. my dog barks from the other room, and i wait until he's rounded the corner to the front door before snagging his phone beside his plate and staring down at the screen.