The trouble with drugs is that no matter how much pain and misery they put you through, they become a part of you. And you will always want to go crawling back.
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t u r m o i l
The dinner table alone looked like it could buy and sell me. It had enough wooden, embroidered and cushioned chairs to seat twelve people, which was sufficient now that Dianne's parents have joined the family.
Rose and D'angelo greeted me with such genuine surprise and elation; it was nice to have a sense of family. Aaron had to restrain his embarrassing grandmother from telling the others stories about "the way he looked at me" at her diner. She gushed and exaggerated anyway.
Aaron's mother said a short prayer in Spanish, and then Christophe continued in English:
"Father god, we thank you for today and everything you have done for us; for allowing us all to gather here again as a family. We thank you for this meal and ask that you bless it, so that it may strengthen and nourish our souls. In Jesus' name we pray; amen."
Everyone repeats amen. When I glance at Aaron, he's already picked up his spoon with a mundane expression. I forgot that he's an atheist and wonder if any of his family members know. It worries me when I think about how angry he became when I mentioned God earlier.
What happened to him that made him so resentful? Will he always attack my beliefs?
"So, how did you two meet?" Dianne asks the both of us. The grandparents were jabbering aimlessly, Aaron's step siblings partially paying attention.
Clearly, Aaron wasn't going to answer.
"Um, we have classes and lunch together, but we just never talked. Aaron wasn't doing well in French and I'm at the top in my class, so I offered to help him out." I shrug, half-smiling. "And that's how it began, I guess."
"How did you learn French?" Christophe joins the conversation.
"My dad is French. He used to speak it with me every chance he had."
Michael jumps in, "That's impressive. I wish I knew other languages."
"You speak Russian, Italian, and German, Michael, the hell are you talking about?"
"I meant, like, other languages like that."
"I'm sure you did."
"Shut up, James." Michael scolds, then he looks back at me. "So, you speak French; any other talents?"
I try not to laugh. "I play piano. Again, my dad."
"So do I; Amazing." Michael grins.
James narrows his eyes promptly. "You know about politics, speak a foreign language, and play an instrument." He turns to Aaron. "What about you, Aaron?" He ponders mockingly. "Oh yeah. You fight." James snorts, sipping his glass of white wine.
The air thickens noticeably. With a still, disdainful glare, Aaron lifts the silver spoon to his lips and takes a bite. He chews slowly. I feel his hand tensing on my thigh.
