Friday Night Dinner
I doodle a swirly pattern in my notebook as the savory aroma of veggies and herbs wafts up my nostrils. Shay is bent over the stove, stirring the contents of a Dutch oven with a wooden spoon. Neena sits on the counter, legs dangling and a stemless wine glass balanced on one palm, complaining about Simone’s tardiness.
“She is so late.” Neena crosses one leg over the other and prods her nose ring with an index finger. “What is she doing?” She picks up her phone with her free hand, and for what feels like the hundredth time that night, reports to us the time and extent of Simone’s transgression. “It’s 7:52. That’s almost a full hour past when she said she’d be home.”
Shay and I exchange a look from across the room. Having lived with Neena for three years, we were familiar with her controlling, jealous tendencies, and her habit of picking fights with the people she loved most. Her lovers, in particular.
In her soothing, maternal way, Shay lifts the wooden spoon to her lips and blows, then carries it over to Neena, hand cupped below to catch drips. “Try this.” She is about to coax the broth into the mouth of our griping friend when the apartment door flies open and there is Simone, face flushed and beaming, arms bursting with bags and schoolbooks.
“There you are.” Neena nearly shouts this and scoots off the counter to loom over Simone. “It’s already eight. Didn’t you get out of class two hours ago?”
Simone rolls her eyes and lets her things fall to the ground in a heap. As she wriggles out of her long winter coat she rises onto her tiptoes and gives Neena a peck on the mouth. “It’s good to see you, too.” She bounds through the kitchen, stopping to give Shay a loving shoulder squeeze and to eye the steaming stew. “That smells good.”
Now by my side, Simone bounces excitedly, eyes shining. “Guess what, guess what?” She plops into the chair beside me, pulling her knees under her body and leaning over the table on her elbows. Before I can reply she continues, “I ran into Jake, and he said his dad — you know, the artist, Mack Reynolds — is looking for an assistant to help him launch his gallery. I told him about you, and got you an interview!”
“Seriously?” I squeal. Mack Reynolds was a brilliant artist who I had studied in school. Meeting him was a dream of mine… and to be able to collaborate with him? That was too good to be true.
Neena walks across the room towards us, glaring, her thick, tattooed arms folded. “I’m sorry. Are you referring to Jake, as in Jake your ex-lover?”
Simone ignores her. “I told him that you are a talented artist with exemplary people skills and would make the perfect teammate.”
I clap my hands together. “Simone, you are my hero!” I want to leap up to hug her, but Neena is now seated at the table and does not appear the least bit excited about the news.
Simone gives my forearm a squeeze. “It was the least I could do.”
Before I can reply Neena leans forward and begins to interrogate Simone. “Where exactly did you run into him?”
Simone takes the offensive. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why do you think? After what happened last time…”
“Well, this isn’t about us. This is about our friend, and what could be a great opportunity for her.”
I feel grateful to Simone for saying this, and frustrated with Neena for making the situation about her. I stand, flipping my notebook shut, and go to help Shay in the kitchen. She holds the bowls and I fill them with ladles dripping of red stew, and her brows furrow as the bickering from the table grows louder. She gives me a look, eyebrows raised, as if to say, do something about this, please. I shrug her off. It’s not my responsibility.
Minutes later, the four of us are seated around the table, slurping up our soup. I am surprised when Shay says, tentatively, “It wasn’t awesome that you got here so late, Simone.”
I turn to her, irritated. “What does it matter to you? She was just doing me a favor by talking to Jake. Why can’t my friends be happy for me?”
Now Shay is the one who looks surprised. “Abby, I am happy for you. But I’m also frustrated that I spent two hours cooking for my friends, that one showed up late, and then they started fighting. And not one of them bothered to ask me how my day was.” The rest of us stare as Shay stands up from the table and stalks into her room, slamming the door behind her. Even-tempered Shay, the maternal one and peacekeeper in our family, rarely raises her voice.
We sit for a few moments in awkward silence. We each stand at the same time, but Neena and Simone sit back down, letting me go first. I knock twice on Shay’s door before opening it. She is sitting on her bed with her knees bent, back against the wall. I scoot up beside her and see that a sketchbook rests against her legs. She is lightly penciling the outline of a cat on a page filled with drawings of animals, people, and flowers.
I bring my arm around her and rest my chin on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Shay, for not looking past my own nose.”
“Make that two of us,” says Simone from the doorway. Neena comes up behind her and puts her arms around Simone’s waist. “No, three.” Simone giggles as Neena lifts her and carries her to the bed. They engulf me and Shay in a hug.
Tears of laughter glitter in Shay’s eyes. I think, I love my family.
