in terms of sanitation.” His mother tilted her head, eyes narrowing behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Why would you need to bulk up? Didn’t you say you were done playing . . . your previous role?”
She still couldn’t bear to say Aeneas. Not when she believed with every ounce of conviction in her ancient-languages-devoted heart that E. Wade’s books had bastardized Virgil’s source material, and that the Gods of the Gates showrunners had only dragged the demigod’s lyrical, meaningful tale further into the muck.
His father agreed, of course.
“I’m done playing Aeneas, but I need to maintain a baseline fitness and strength level, even between jobs. Otherwise, the road back is too hard. So thanks for this.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated his half-finished plate of food. “You’re helping me remain a prime physical specimen. Grade-A man meat.”
His father didn’t look up from his own plate of poached chicken and roasted asparagus, instead dragging a forkful of the tender poultry through the green goddess dressing he and his wife had prepared in their small, sunlit kitchen earlier that morning as Marcus watched.
When his parents cooked together, it was like his sword fight with Carah. A dance rehearsed so many times that each precise movement required little thought. No effort.
His parents didn’t stumble. Not ever.
Lawrence picked fragile leaves from bundles of fragrant herbs while Debra snapped the offending woody ends off her asparagus stalks. Lawrence prepared the poaching liquid while Debra trimmed the chicken breasts. Spoons flashing in the sun, they tasted the dressing in the food processor, a slight tilt of the head and a moment of eye contact enough to indicate the need for a pinch more salt.
It was beautiful, in its own fashion.
As usual, Marcus had leaned against the cabinets closest to the door, safely out of their way, and watched, arms tight across his chest or against his sides.
If he took up more space, he’d become an intrusion. Unlike most of his lessons, that one hadn’t taken long to sink in.
Marcus’s mother rested her fork and knife neatly on her now-empty plate. “Will you be joining us for dinner too? We planned to go shopping this afternoon, then make grilled cioppino tonight. Your father intends to char some flatbreads while I mind the seafood skewers.”
On their tiny deck, the two of them would crowd around the old charcoal grill, arguing amiably as they worked within arm’s reach of one another. Another version of their dance. A tango, fiery and smoky, rather than the pristine waltz of the morning.
His parents did everything together. Always had, from as far back as Marcus could remember.
They cooked together. Wore blue button-down shirts and endless khaki slacks together. Washed and dried dishes together. Went on rambling after-dinner walks together. Read academic journal articles together. Translated ancient texts together. Bickered about the clear superiority of either Greek—in her case—or Latin—in his—together. Taught until retirement at the same prestigious private prep school together, in the same foreign languages department, once Debra no longer needed to homeschool Marcus.
Long ago, they’d also conducted late-night, not-quiet-enough conversations about their son together, in mutual accord about their growing concern and frustration and determination to help him succeed. To push him harder. To make him understand the importance of education, of books over looks, serious thought over frivolity.
From their cowritten opinion pieces about the Gods of the Gates books and series, he imagined that aspect of their partnership had never entirely disappeared, even after almost forty years. Much to the glee of various tabloid reporters.
So, yes, he was going to lie to them.
He directed a casual, gleaming smile to the table at large, focused on no one and nothing in particular. “I appreciate the invitation, but I have a dinner engagement tonight. In fact, I’ll need to leave in an hour so I have enough time to get ready.” Tousling his hair just so with a practiced, easy gesture, he winked at his mother. “This kind of beauty takes effort, you know. And with the ubiquity of smartphones, cameras are everywhere these days.”
Her lips compressed, and her gaze sought her husband’s.
Marcus pushed his plate an inch or two farther away, leaving a knob of chicken uneaten amid the sauce. There was never enough heat or acid in their green goddess dressing. Yet another truth that had survived decades.
His father had insisted Marcus’s unsophisticated palate would appreciate subtlety if they only exposed him to it often enough. But insistence alone couldn’t transform reality.
That was a lesson they should have