A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Forty-One: Bi Lacho

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Claire and I keep our new designated spots. It wouldn't make sense to switch again, although I want to.

Sebastian and I maintain our distance, knees tilted in opposite directions, elbows below the table, heads turned away from each other. Sebastian is visibly upset from Claire's blessings; he drinks his wine slowly, savoring the flavors as if it's the only cup he'll get to enjoy, to avoid having to acknowledge her presence across from him.

Food is passed around like an assembly line. I watch the two different platters of macaroni and cheese in rotation. I know which one is mine—cream-tinted glass dish, sunflowers lining the sides, the color of the flowers fading from constant wash and use. Claire's is green—seafoam green. It looks brand new, bought for the occasion.

To be generous, everyone gets half of each; they know we're watching. Mine takes a little more effort to scoop out since I broiled mine, leaving the top crisp but not burnt; breadcrumbs. A staple.

"Asparagus?" Sebastian says to me. I nod, and he's generous enough to place some of the green vegetables on my empty plate. Then next is the pot roast, the garlic chicken, the mashed potatoes with bacon bits. I accept a little bit of each; Sebastian basically makes my plate for me.

"I can make my own plate, you know," I whisper, toying with him.

"I know. I'm just being a gentleman."

"A gentleman would know not to give me a child's scoop of mashed potatoes."

Sebastian raises a brow at me, spoon in mid-air. We joke with our eyes until he obliges with more mash on my plate. I smile gratefully.

"That's better," I say, grin unable to leave my face. Eventually, he laughs. Intentionally quiet; low enough for only myself to hear. I want to continue talking to him, bantering with him, in this way. I want to tell him the three words that I told myself I'd tell him. But I know now isn't a good time. Any time other than this, I'm unsure would be better. But now will never be.

The dish is in my hand. I give Rachel mashed potatoes myself. She asks for more, much more, but Margot scolds Rachel with her eyes, making her slump back in her chair. The mac and cheese is next. Sebastian is smart enough to grab a little of both, and I do the same, not to please Claire, but to critique.

After five minutes of rotation, we all start to eat. We're subject to small groups of conversation down the table. Four of us speak about the weather, another four or five talk about celebrity gossip, these four or five occasionally glancing at Sebastian as if he can confirm or deny the rumors they're speaking about; as if he personally knows every celebrity they talk about.

I eat my food quietly because silence is better than saying something wrong. Knife slicing roast, fork puncturing roast, watching the juices spread out, then placing a piece in my mouth. It's good. A bit undercooked, but at least flavorful. I eat and eat, staring down at my plate and listening to the conversations happening around me. I take my time around my plate; I eat each food separately, taking pride in the fact that they're not touching on my china. I notice Sebastian is doing the same thing I'm doing—not eating his food in a clockwise manner, but keeping to himself. People try to get his attention, holding it successfully and reeling him into their conversations like an unlucky fish. But he always ends up the same way again: eating quietly, picking at the vegetables like a child. I watch him shamelessly as he finally tastes the macaroni and cheese.

He tries mine first.

"Leslie," Claire says before I can ask Sebastian how he likes my cooking. "Why didn't you invite your boyfriend over for Thanksgiving?"