Everyone’s playing their parts today, including my artificially happy and loving parents, so well it turns my stomach.
As Dad goes to fetch our drinks, Mom floats toward us from the kitchen, searching desperately when she hears Ares’ nails clicking the floor.
“Oh, there he is!” She bends down, ruffling Ares’ long ears. “So glad you brought him, Ethan.”
“What choice did I have? Didn’t want any blood on my hands.” I bend down to kiss her cheek.
“Ohhh, big boy. What a little baby,” Mom coos. “Do you want some nice cheese?”
“Mom.” I clear my throat pointedly. “This is Hattie.”
She starts and looks up from smothering Ares with kisses.
Then she gives Hattie a long once-over, slowly taking in the dress, the shoes, the elegantly curled hair and the flawless makeup.
A genuine smile curves her lips.
“Hattie, dear,” she says fondly. “You’ve grown up and you lookwonderful.”
She inhales deeply, holding a breath as she gives my mom a hug. “Thanks! I love Fig dresses, they’re becoming an addiction,” she lies effortlessly.
“Oh,yes.” Mom beams. “Always so elegant and original. You should meet him if you get a chance, the man’s a treasure.”
For a second, my girl looks deranged, stunned into silence.
That’s the thing about Mom. Even though she loves all the finest things in life and loves to make sure everybody knows it, she doesn’t know shit about them.
Yes, she can smell money from twenty miles away, but the qualities that separate the expensive from the cheap elude her.
All she cares about is the price tag or the awe-inspiring name.
“It’s fabulous to see you again. Wow, I think the last time was Margot’s graduation party?” Hattie says, still practically rigid from stress beside me.
But Mom gives her another welcoming smile.
“It’s our pleasure to have you here. I know it’s a lot, being engaged to my son.” She throws me a playful look.
Fuck this.
It’s all a show.
Mom and I have never been close enough to be playful. But I guess they’ve decided today must be all about making them looklike the perfect parents. For Elvira Blackthorn, appearances are as supreme as famous, expensive labels.
Christ, where is that drink?
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, gesturing forward impatiently.
“Oh, yes. Right this way.” Mom beckons with one hand decked out in shining rings. Her hair is freshly dyed, a shade of ash blonde that’s too light. “We brought in a sushi chef, Hattie, so I hope you’re hungry. He’s very impressive, thirty years between Kyoto, Honolulu, and Seattle working his trade.”
Of course he did.
And of course they fucking did.
It would’ve been too much to expect them to cook or serve up something simple.
I don’t think Mom knows how to boil pasta. Gramps made her take a few lessons when she was a kid, apparently, but now if the food isn’t prepared by a culinary wonder, it doesn’t live in this house.
The entitlement shouldn’t piss me off as much as it does.
