Chapter 1: No Chair At This Table
713 Words
Marlowe
The bowl was still spinning on the floor when Aunt Marla's hand connected with my face.
"That was your uncle's soup." She held two fingers up like the number mattered more than the crime.
I was already on my knees, rag in hand, mopping broth off the tile while my cheek throbbed in time with my pulse. Ten years of practice and I still hadn't found the setting on my face marked *unbothered.* I had *flat.* I had *far away.* Unbothered was still out of stock.
Grant, from his chair, mouth full of bread that was supposed to be for everyone. "Faster this time." He didn't even look up from his plate. "Some of us actually worked today."
I kept my eyes on the floor. "You've never carried a bowl of soup in your life, Grant. You wouldn't know if I dropped it on purpose."
The second slap came before I finished the sentence. I stayed down a beat longer than I needed to, cheek burning, and gave her nothing — no flinch, no tears, no satisfaction. Not surviving the hit. Surviving the look on her face when the hit didn't land the way she wanted.
"Yes, ma'am." I meant none of it.
I finished the floor. Made more soup. Ate mine standing at the counter, because the table only sat four, and I'd learned years ago exactly whose chair had never existed in the first place.
---
There was a photo in the hallway I wasn't supposed to look at too long — my father, twenty-something, grinning on a motorcycle that didn't exist anymore, one arm around a woman who wasn't my mother. Silas Calloway took up exactly as much space as he wanted to, in that photo.
"He's dead." Marla, the year I turned twelve, the year I stopped being cute enough to excuse and started being useful enough to work. "Mooning over a photograph won't change what you are."
What I was, in that house, had never been complicated. Not a daughter. Not quite family. Something closer to rent that walked and talked and did the dishes — payment on a debt nobody had ever explained, for the crime of being born to a man everyone here resented for being loved more than they were.
I went to bed with my cheek still hot, doing the math I did most nights. Years left until I could legally leave. Dollars I'd need. How far Ember Hollow's one bus route actually went.
The numbers never worked. They hadn't worked in years.
---
I heard it through the wall past midnight, the way I heard everything that mattered in that house — secondhand, uninvited, through plaster too thin to keep anyone's secrets.
"They're calling for new prospects at the den." My uncle Dorian, low, almost reverent, in a voice he'd never once used on me. "Church meeting Thursday. Silas's boy should go."
Not *my nephew.* Not *Grant.* My dead father's ghost, still doing all the talking in that house twelve years after they buried him.
Grant's chair scraped back hard enough to nearly go over. "I'm not doing trials." His voice cracked on the second word. "You've heard what happens to prospects who wash out. Cutter lost two fingers his first month. Danny got sent home in a bag with a note that just said *tell his mother we tried.*"
"You'll do what keeps this family's name in that clubhouse." Dorian's voice dropped into the register that used to make my whole body go still, back when I was small enough to still flinch on instinct. "Your uncle built that patch with his own blood. I won't let his name die because you're squeamish."
I sat up in the dark, one palm flat against the cold wall, and felt something click into place. Quiet. Total. Like a key sliding home in a lock built for exactly this shape, and no other.
They wanted a Calloway walking through that gate. They didn't care which one.
It had never once, in nineteen years, occurred to either of them that it could be me.
I smiled at the ceiling for the first time in longer than I could remember, and it felt like the first real thing I'd done in this house in a decade.
- Writer
