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She wags her eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t care about the job.”
“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I want to be a shitty employee. Dad raised us better than that.”
She nods, seemingly impressed with my wisdom. Little does she know, I’m just saying that to segue into the conversation I actually care about. “Speaking of Dad…does he know you’re going to Tyler’s gig on Thursday?”
She levels her blue eyes on me. They’re ice cold. Huh. I need to remember that trick.
“No, he doesn’t, and I’m not going to tell him.”
“Smart. If we learned anything from binge-watching sitcoms as kids, it’s that lying to your parents and sneaking out always goes off without a hitch.”
She throws her magazine at me and I narrowly avoid a paper cut to the cornea.
“He’s not going to find out.”
She’s being naive. Ellie still lives at home with our dad and shiny new stepmother. If she comes home on Thursday (or early Friday morning) reeking of smoke and excuses, Dad will definitely do some sleuthing to figure out where she’s been. He hates Tyler, and for good reason. Tyler has been arrested like 45 times for all sorts of fancy-sounding crimes, like possession of an illegal substance (weed) and driving while intoxicated (stupid), but Ellie is blind to his flaws. I blame the full-sleeve tattoos and hot, hot British accent.
Before Tyler tempted her with his bad-boy persona, Ellie had a clear type: hot, preppy rich kids, the type of guys she and I went to high school with. (Yup. Shocking, isn’t it? Ellie and I are from old money.) We went to an expensive prep school in Austin and spent our childhood in the nice part of Westlake, where the houses are spaced acres apart and the views give you a glimpse of the entire cityscape. My experience growing up there is the exact reason I can’t stand most members of the country club. I’ll take my neighbors at the co-op any day.
“Didn’t he threaten to kick you out if you kept seeing him? What are you going to do without Dad’s infinity pool and fully stocked walk-in pantry?”
She smirks. “I’m spending the night at Tyler’s place and heading straight to work on Friday afternoon. Dad will never know.”
“You know, you wouldn’t have to worry about sneaking around if you moved out.”
“Why would I blow most of my paycheck on rent every month if I don’t have to? Dad’s house is massive, the fridge is always full, and I hardly have to see Martha.”
“Really?”
I assumed our stepmom watched over the house like a gargoyle.
“Really. She has a very regimented life. Tennis at Twin Oaks every morning, then lunch with a few ladies from the Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin. By midafternoon she’s usually so exhausted from her hectic schedule that she has to have a ‘lie down’ that looks a lot like a white wine coma. I’m not allowed to play music or turn the TV on between the hours of 2 and 4 PM.”
“Jesus. She’s insane.”
Ellie laughs. “She’s not that bad. She makes Dad happy, and that’s really all that matters, right?”
“I guess.”
She points at me. “You two would actually get along if you made more of an effort to get to know her. She invited me to go with her to one of her charity meetings Thursday.”
“And you said yes?”
She pushes to the end of the bed and swings her feet to the ground. “Yes. I agreed because Martha has been married to Dad for almost five years now.”
“What about Mom?”
Her voice is devoid of emotion when she replies stubbornly, “What about her? She’s halfway across the world at the moment.”
“She said she’d be here for Christmas.”
Ellie’s laugh cuts deeper than it should. “Right. I’ll leave out some milk and cookies for her.”
She’s putting her shoes on, getting ready to leave, when I offer up a sad suggestion.
“We could always visit her.”
Her head snaps up and her eyes narrow. “Do you even know where she’s stationed? Last I heard she and Jorge were still in Africa.”
“They’re in Argentina now.”
“See? Do you see how ridiculous this is? You need to let it go, Brooke. I’m not saying you have to like Martha, but chasing after Mom is getting pathetic.”
I flinch and she steps closer, wrapping me up in a hug before continuing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
I don’t hug her back, but I do inhale her shampoo. “Yes you did.”
“Come with us to the charity meeting tomorrow. The event is benefitting a group that saves pigs from cosmetics testing labs.”
“A bunch of old biddies in lipstick raising money for a bunch of little piggies in lipstick? No thanks, sis.”
…
Thursday afternoon, despite my protests, I find myself smack dab in the middle of a Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin luncheon. I recognize more than half of the injected lips in the room from Twin Oaks. This town is small, and these women’s waistlines are (surgically) smaller.
