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“Yes, where was I? Oh, the cooler broke right when we got there and we had to source replacements on the fly . . .”Walking into Dad’s office, he heads straight for the scotch. He pours a skinny pour, upends and swallows it, and then eyes me critically. I don’t know what he’s searching for as I stand there feeling like I’m a child again, waiting for a lecture. But whatever he sees, he goes for a second pour before sitting down.
Mom isn’t waiting on him. She barely restrained her questions for the remainder of dinner, which we boldly ate while conversing about nothing of consequence to be sure we were seen as strong and unwilling to put up with shit from someone like Emily Jones. I mean, Daniels.
Ugh.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, so you’d best get to it, Abi,” Mom starts.
I nod, finding a chair to plop into defeatedly. This is going to suck. I’m embarrassed, angry, and know I should’ve handled Emily with more grace, but in the moment, throwing my drink seemed like the right thing to do and the fastest way to shut her up.
“I know,” I sigh, “Emily and I weren’t friends in school. More like competitors—”
Dad interrupts me. “Yeah, yeah. We got that part. She’s a bitch.”
Mom gasps, “Morgan!”
He lifts a sardonic brow. “Am I wrong?”
Mom doesn’t say anything for a long second, and then she shakes her head, on the verge of laughter but fighting it valiantly. “No, that girl was a bitch.” She sounds like the very word is a delight to say. I’m a little proud of Mom. She’s loving and kind, sweet and strong, but she’s not exactly one to let her ugly thoughts and feelings run amok.
Dad gestures widely, giving me back the floor. “Now that that’s settled, continue. But start with Aruba, not schoolyard stupidity.”
I need to get this off my chest, this craziness that I’ve gotten myself into that’s worse than anything I’ve done before. “I saw Emily and Doug at check-in, and she was . . . well, herself, and I was floundering. Lorenzo—he’s Violet’s cousin—came up and saved me. I didn’t know he was going to be there, but he cooked for the wedding last-minute. And it just popped out . . . I said we were there on our honeymoon too.”
Dad mutters under his breath, looking at the ceiling as though cursing God for his stupid children. Or maybe praying that we finally grow the fuck up. Either way, he ends the private conversation by swallowing his second scotch and setting the empty tumbler on the side table next to him.
Leaning forward, hands interlaced between his knees, he clarifies, “Instead of bragging about this amazing wedding you were there to work on, on the successful business you started on your own and run not only debt-free but with a stellar ROI, and the happy life you have carved out for yourself . . . you went with a fake honeymoon?”
“Well, when you put it like that, I do see how stupid it sounds,” I admit. I hear Dad’s assessment, his pride in how well I’ve done, and it soothes something in me to know that he’s proud of me, of what I’ve accomplished. Even if I haven’t done all the things I want to . . . yet. And even if I did . . . this.
Unexpected emotion wells up in my throat. “In the moment, it was just easier to . . .”
Mom comes to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me to her in comfort. “It was easier to beat her at the only thing she values. She wouldn’t have understood the hard work you’ve put in or the goals you’ve crushed. People like her only understand who they are based on who they know.”
Mom is so fucking smart. I don’t forget that she’s brilliant and leads events and charities by the dozens, but she’s quiet about it in some ways, making it seem so effortless that I do forget that she’s as much a powerhouse as Dad.
I nod into her shoulder. She lets me have a meltdown for one more second and then she pats my back before pushing me away coldly. “All right, now. Get on with it. Tell us the rest.”
I find strength and keep going. “I was faking a honeymoon with Lorenzo. Like dinners, couples’ yoga, a sunset cruise.” Dad makes a snorting noise, and I rush to clarify, “Only when I was all caught up with the wedding stuff. Janey and I did everything one hundred percent.”
“I’m sure you did, Abi. I don’t doubt your dedication to your work. I do, however, doubt your sanity. All of yours, actually.” Dad looks from me to Ross to Courtney. “Is it too much to ask that my children simply meet someone, fall in love, and get married in the usual way?”
