By six o’clock, the smell of roasted chicken filled my small kitchen, though neither of us had much of an appetite. I set a plate of green beans and chicken breast in front of Dustin, who immediately began moving the food around with his fork.
“You need to eat,” I said, sitting across from him at the laminate table. “You have a double shift tomorrow.”
“I am not that hungry,” he said, still refusing to meet my eyes.
The nineteen ninety-eight refrigerator shuddered, its compressor kicking on with a low, familiar groan that usually comforted me but now only highlighted the silence.
“Your father said the portrait was his idea,” I said gently, leaning forward.
Dustin’s fork stopped scraping the ceramic plate. His face flushed, a deep red creeping up from his collar.
“Dad did not force me to do anything,” Dustin said, his voice rising slightly before he checked himself. “I wanted to do it. It was entirely my own idea.”
