The Kiss Quotient (The Kiss Quotient #1)(39)

The short one stabbed a finger in the twins’ direction. “You two are going to stop fighting right now.”

They scoffed and crossed their arms in almost the exact same manner.

“Ever since you moved out and left us with Mom’s problems, you lost the right to say anything to us,” the first sister said.

The short sister rolled forward like a tank. “Now that she’s stable, it’s time for me to live my life, too. Try to think of others for once in your lives.”

“So now we’re the selfish ones?” the second sister asked. “You’re out hobnobbing at work parties, and we’re home holding Mom’s hair while she vomits after her chemo treatments.”

“She’s not doing chemo right now . . . Right?” The short sister looked at Michael for confirmation.

His mom snatched the remote from Grandma and maxed out the volume on the TV before she went to putter around by the sink. Stella rested damp palms on the glass surface of the table. This had to stop eventually. She just had to outlast them.

“She was, but she didn’t respond well, so they switched her to a drug trial,” Michael provided.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because you’re so goddamned busy with your important crap, why else? Mom didn’t want to stress you out more than you always are,” one of the twins said.

“Finding out this way is stressing me out worse.”

“Boo-hoo, Angie,” the other twin said.

As the sniping continued, a harsh beeping sounded, and his mom took a white colander out of the microwave. Using tongs, she put steaming rice noodles into a large bowl along with the beef Michael had stir-fried and an assortment of greens.

She placed the bowl in front of Stella with a polite smile. “Michael’s bún. You’ll like it.”

Stella’s chin bobbed on a jerky nod. “Thank—” A suspicion rose, and she snuck a glance at the colander. She pushed the bowl away. “The colander is made of plastic. No one should eat this.”

His mom froze, and a tide of red swept over her face as she stared first at Stella and then the bowl. “Let me make new noodles.”

Before his mom could touch the bowl, Michael grabbed it. “I’ll do it. Sit, M?.” His expression was strained as he removed the poisoned food, and Stella had the horrible feeling that she’d said The Wrong Thing, but she didn’t know how else she could have navigated the situation.

His mom sat down and eyed Michael’s sisters as they continued their argument in a loose square by the refrigerator. Sighing, she picked up her peeler and resumed where she’d left off with her last mango.

Stella kept her eyes on her own work, growing more and more nervous with every passing moment. She was painfully aware of the lack of conversation between them, and her instincts urged her to fill the silence—if silence was even the right word. His mom wasn’t speaking, but his sisters were, and the TV had been blasting this whole time. When the piano started playing again, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. That flat A note rang one, two-three, four times. Had anything ever been so irritating?

“You really should get the piano tuned,” she said. “Where is your husband again?”

When his mom continued peeling her mango without answering, Stella assumed she hadn’t heard the question.

So she asked again. “Where is he?”

“He’s gone,” his mom said in a final tone.

“Does that mean . . . he’s passed away?” Should she offer condolences? She wasn’t sure what to say now.

His mom sighed, keeping her eyes on her mango. “I don’t know.”

The answer tripped Stella up, and she frowned as she asked, “Are you divorced, then?”

“I can’t divorce him if I can’t find him.”

Stella stared at Michael’s mom in complete bafflement. “What do you mean, you can’t find him? Was he in an accident or—”

A large hand gripped her shoulder and squeezed with firm pressure. Michael. “The noodles are almost done. Do you eat peanuts?”

She blinked at the interruption. “Sure, I’m not allergic.” When he nodded and went to the kitchen island, she refocused on his mom. “How long has he been gone? Have you filed a missing-person re—”

“Stella.” Michael’s voice split through the air, a startling reprimand.

His sisters stopped arguing, and all eyes locked on her. Her heart pounded louder than the TV and the piano. What had she done?

“We don’t talk about my dad,” he said.

That didn’t make any sense. “But what if he’s hurt or—”

“You can’t hurt someone when they don’t have a heart,” his mom interrupted. “He left us all to be with another woman. I want to divorce him, but I don’t know where to send the papers. He changed his phone number.” His mom pushed her chair back and stood. “M?’s tired. You kids eat, ah? Maybe go buy something for Michael’s girlfriend if she doesn’t like what we have.”

His mom left, and the piano music ended abruptly. His grandma turned off the opera, leaving the room quiet but for the crackling of the TV’s static discharge. The sudden quietness was a relief, but it felt ominous somehow. Her blood rushed, her head throbbed, and her breaths came in short gasps like she’d been running. Or maybe she was preparing to run.