Free Dare You To by Katie McGarry Page B

salad bowl. The moment she spears the small round vegetable, Mom glares at Dad. “He has a niece?”
    Dad holds her gaze with irritated
    indifference and follows it up with a drink from his longneck.
    “I gave you a wineglass,” Mom reminds
    HC TITLE-AUTHOR
    109
    him.
    Dad places the longneck, which drips with condensation, next to said glass right on the wood of the table—without a coaster. Mom
    shifts in her seat like a crow fluffing out its wings. The only thing she’s missing is the pissed-off caw.
    For the last few months, Dad and I have
    been eating our dinners in the living room while watching TV. Mom gave up food after Mark left.
    Mom and Dad began marriage counseling a
    few weeks ago, though they have yet to
    directly tell me. The need to project perfection won’t allow them to admit to a flaw like their marriage needing help from an outside source.
    Instead I found out the same way I discover anything in this house: I overheard them
    fighting in the living room while I lay in bed at night.

    Last week, their marriage counselor
    recommended that Mom and Dad try to do
    something as a family. They fought for two days over what that something should be until they settled on Sunday dinner.
    It’s why I invited Mark. We haven’t had a HC TITLE-AUTHOR
    110
    dinner together since he left and if he’d showed, maybe the four of us could have found a way to reconnect.
    I wonder if Mom and Dad feel the emptiness of the chair next to mine. Mark possessed this charm that kept my parents from fighting. If they were annoyed with each other, Mark
    would tell a story or a joke to break the chill.
    The arctic winter in my house never existed when he was home.
    “Yeah, he has a niece,” I say, hoping to
    move the conversation forward and to fill the hollowness inside me. “Her name is Elisabeth.
    Beth.” And she’s making my life hell—not too different from suffering through this dinner.
    I tear a biscuit apart and slather on some butter. Beth embarrassed me in front of Scott Risk and I lost a dare because of her. I drop the biscuit—the dare. A spark ignites in my brain.
    Chris and I never set a time limit on it, which means I can still win.
    Mom straightens the napkin on her lap,
    disrupting my thoughts. “You should be
    friendly with her, Ryan, but maintain your distance. The Risks had a reputation years ago.”
    HC TITLE-AUTHOR
    111
    Dad’s chair scrapes against the new tile
    and he makes a disgusted noise in his throat.
    “What?” Mom demands.
    Dad rolls his shoulders back and focuses on his beef instead of answering.
    “You have something to say,” prods Mom,
    “say it.”
    Dad tosses his fork onto his plate. “Scott Risk has some valuable contacts. I say get close to her, Ryan. Show her around. If you do a favor for him, I’m sure he’d do one for you.”
    “Of course,” says Mom. “Give him advice
    that goes directly against mine.”
    Dad begins talking over her and their
    combined raised voices cause my head to
    throb. Losing my appetite, I slide my chair away from the table. It’s gut-wrenching,
    listening to the ongoing annihilation of my family. There is absolutely no worse sound on the face of the planet.
    Until the phone rings. My parents fall silent as all three of us look over at the counter and see Mark’s name appear on the caller ID. A rocky combination of hope and hurt creates a heaviness in my throat and stomach.
    “Let it go,” Dad murmurs.
    HC TITLE-AUTHOR
    112
    Mom stands on the second ring and my
    heart beats in my ears. Come on, Mom, answer.
    Please.
    “We could talk to him,” she says as she
    stares at the phone. “Tell him that as long as he keeps it a secret he can come home.”
    “Yeah,” I say, hoping that one of them will change their minds. Maybe this time Mark
    would choose to stay and fight instead of leaving me behind. “We should answer.”
    The phone rings a fourth time.
    “Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.
    And the answering machine