Chapter 2: Secrets and Scars

Derek lounged back, sleeves rolled up, cracking jokes with Caleb. Marcus sat off to the side, glued to his phone, the blue light making him look even more distant. The room felt stifling—thick with the smell of pot roast and burnt edges, forks clinking on mismatched plates, and the faint twang of country music from the radio. Mom’s lemon bars cooled on the counter, their sweet-tart scent mixing with the heavy air.

Derek looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, his muddy sneakers propped on the rung of his chair. Caleb picked at a thread on the tablecloth, restless. Marcus kept tapping his phone, every inch the Ivy-bound scholar lost in his own world.

Whenever my parents tried to smooth things over—offering seconds, pouring lemonade—the boys just mumbled impatient replies, eyes darting to the clock or out the window, wishing this dinner would just disappear.

Until I spoke up.

My voice cut through the chatter like a dropped dish. The scrape of my chair on the hardwood was too loud. For a heartbeat, even the cicadas outside fell silent.

The whole room froze.

It was that tense hush before a storm—or after a joke bombs. No one moved. I heard the fridge humming in the next room, the ceiling fan clicking overhead.

Derek and Caleb turned, staring at me. Even Marcus looked up, his gaze sharp, unreadable.

It was the first time all night they’d really seen me, and it felt like standing on stage at the spring talent show, every eye waiting for me to stumble.

I pretended not to notice.

I gripped my napkin, forced my shoulders back like Mom taught me when I was little, and tried to look like I had everything under control.

I told my equally stunned parents, "You could’ve told me about this marriage thing ahead of time. Then there wouldn’t have been all this confusion."

My voice shook at the end, but I pushed on, focusing on the lines in the tablecloth—anything but their faces.

"They’re right."

I tried to sound casual, like I didn’t care. My heart thudded so loud I was sure they all heard it.

"Even though we grew up together, I only see them as brothers. Not a single romantic feeling."

I remembered the scraped knees, the snowball fights, the years of being last-picked for basketball, convincing myself that belonging was enough. But I forced a smile, hoping my voice sounded steady.

My parents, worried I’d be embarrassed, hadn’t told me this was basically a blind date dinner. They’d picked Caleb—two years younger, always sweet and energetic—thinking maybe he’d say yes. They didn’t know why the other boys showed up.

Mom spent hours worrying, baking her lemon bars just in case. She whispered to Dad that if it worked, maybe things would feel normal again. Derek and Marcus turning up at the last minute? Just another sign nothing goes as planned in the Sanders house.

I was mad at my parents for keeping it from me, but heartbreak and disappointment drowned out everything else.

It stung, the way you feel after getting cut from varsity—equal parts anger and hurt. I wanted to scream, to throw something, but all I managed was a tight smile, swallowing back tears I refused to let them see.

I remembered when things were good. Mom once asked if I liked anyone. I turned away, embarrassed, and she teased, "Is it Derek? Or maybe Marcus?" She never pressed, just hugged me and said, "You’ll tell me someday."

After that, I hid my feelings deep down. No one ever figured out who I liked.

I buried my crush in homework and sarcasm, acting tough. But sometimes I’d catch myself staring too long at a certain someone, heart fluttering, then snap back, mad at myself.

Then Dad’s business tanked, our savings dried up, and the other families pulled away.

The phone stopped ringing. Invites to lake days vanished. Even the Bennetts stopped bringing Christmas cookies.

Mom thought if she didn’t help me grab this chance, I’d never confess to the one I liked. So she set up this dinner behind my back.

It was the first time I’d seen Mom so nervous, pacing and double-checking the place settings. I should have known something was up when she used the good silverware.

The Bennetts didn’t come, but the Harris and Brooks boys did. My parents told the truth: if any of us liked each other, marriage would be great; if not, just a regular dinner—no pressure.

Dad tried to sound casual—"Just dinner, just family"—but his trembling hands gave him away.

They never expected my childhood friends to reject me so bluntly.

Mom’s smile faded, her eyes fixed on her plate. I wanted to scream, but I just sat there, feeling the weight of everyone’s disappointment.

I was used to it, but seeing my parents’ forced smiles twisted my heart painfully.

It was the kind of pain you get watching your favorite movie, knowing how it ends but wishing for something different. I blinked hard, refusing to let them see me cry.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I slammed my napkin on the table, fabric bunching in my fist. The sound was sharp, slicing through the tension.

Before my parents could say a word, I stood up, looked around, and said coldly, "Seems like none of you want to finish this meal. Let’s just call it a night."

My voice echoed off the walls. No one met my eyes. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, footsteps loud on the old floor. As I stepped into the darkness, I swore—never again would I let them see me break.