“I saw a woman carrying a bag full of rubber chickens today,” Evan says, his mouth so full it’s hard to understand him. It’s the first thing anyone’s said all evening.

It’s our first family dinner with Jeff after he convinced dad to take him back. After he cheated. After he lied to our faces. After he made us mourn him.

Evan hates silence and tension more than he hates Jeff right now, so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s the one to break the ice. Even though it means a lot to dad, I can’t bring myself to be civil with Jeff. I don’t look at him, or even breathe in his direction, if I can help it. 

“Really?” dad asks. “Where?”

“On the train.”

“Did you get her number?” Jeff chuckles. His attempts at lightheartedness are noticeable, and pitiful.

Evan shakes his head. “She was, like, in her eighties,” he explains. “She had on this red fur coat—it was huge, like, all the way down to the floor—and she had a hat to match. She got on at Ninety-Sixth Street, and she had one bag of groceries or something, and another bag with a bunch of rubber chickens in it.”

“Sounds like your type,” I mutter, cracking a smile at him. He and dad laugh.

Jeff says, “Kim, be nice to your brother.”

“I am nice,” I snarl, rolling my eyes so hard it hurts.

“It’s okay, Jeff,” Evan says, managing a polite nod in his direction. I don’t know how he can even look at Jeff without wanting to kick his teeth in. The table falls silent again; the faint clinks and scraping of silverware is almost deafening.

“So, what do you think she was doing with a bag full of rubber chickens?” dad asks.

Evan shrugs. “Dunno,” he says, still chewing his food. “What use does anyone have for even one rubber chicken? Who’d need multiple?”

“Maybe they were a gift?” Jeff suggests.

Dad laughs. “Who loves rubber chickens that much?”

“You never know,” Jeff replies. “I mean, people are into some weird stuff.”

“Like dating a twenty-two-year old and lying to our faces?” I mutter mostly to myself, but I don’t care if Jeff hears me.

“Kimberly,” dad warns.

“What?”

“You know what,” he says. “This isn’t okay.”

“No, dad,” I tell him, raising my voice. “You’re right. It’s not okay. It’s not okay that he hurt you.” I point at Jeff, who just stares at me expressionlessly. I can feel hot tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “He hurt all of us. And then he gets to just walk back in here like nothing happened? Like he can just say sorry and erase what he did?”

I turn to Jeff, whose face hasn’t moved to show any trace of emotion. 

“You’re a coward,” I bite. “And a liar.” 

I don’t wait for him to reply before shoving my chair back and storming off to my room.