“I’m allowed to bring a plus-one, and I want you to come with me, but I also don’t want you to go. It’s not like a fun-family-event sort of thing. It’s more of a…event where family will be in attendance, if you know what I mean. You know I’m not really super close to my parents, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of my cousins, even. We don’t really keep in touch. So, it’ll mainly be everyone just standing around, drinking champagne, and trying to impress each other with all the cool things they’re doing right now. It’s miserable, truly. I’d rather you not come,” I finish honestly.
Instead of looking hurt, the way I’d feared he might, Nils merely nods. He probably understands what I’m struggling to put into words. Family events like this are stressful enough without the additional element of bringing someone new to introduce to everyone. Add to that the fact that I’ve never brought someone home in the past, and frankly, the whole weekend would be a recipe for disaster. I’d rather Nils know me as the Oliver he met on the lobster boat. The one who does renovation projects and likes pretty things and didn’t own a snow shovel until he bought me one. I don’t want that Oliver to be shrouded by the sad, pale copy I have to become to shrink myself down into the box my father built for me.
“You’ll be okay?” Nils asks, hand resting on my hip now.Every day, he becomes more touchy, and every day, I find it harder to pull myself out of his gravitational orbit.
“Oh, yeah. Of course. They’re not, like, psychopaths or anything. Just sort of…rude and entitled and elitist.” I pause, thinking. “Okay, so yeah, maybe a few psychopathic tendencies there.”
He laughs, leaning forward and kissing my forehead.
“Lucky for us, I only inherited the good traits, right?” I joke as he steps back.
“Lucky,” he agrees.
Unfortunately, the luck does not persist past the town line as I leave Siren’s Point the next day. My father texts me four times while I’m on the road, the messages flashing up on the lock screen, each one becoming slightly more aggressive. My hands are tight with tension as I steer my vehicle into the parking lot at the country club, and already I can feel a low-grade headache forming at the base of my skull. Sitting in my car, I watch a handful of people dressed in cocktail attire walk by. I don’t recognize any of them, which feels both fortunate and unfortunate. I’m just far enough removed from my family that the extended portion remains a bit of a mystery to me. Those were probably cousins of some sort, but heck if I could identify them in a police lineup.
I sit in my car, humming softly and wishing I were back at Nils’ house, until another text message from my father comes through. Sighing, I turn off the ignition, straighten my tie—decorated with tiny lobsters—and leave the car. The air is crisp, and I tip my head back to check the sky. As much as I washoping for a storm that would force a party cancellation, now that I’m here, I’d prefer the opposite. If it snows tonight, I might get stuck here, and that would be the worst possibility of all.
My mother swoops down on me like a glittery bat the moment I walk in the door. Her perfume is cloying, the flowery scent almost sickly sweet and overbearing. I think about Nils as I hug her, and my cheeks flush. I put on cologne today, instead of my own preference toward flowers. I hope I smell better to Nils than my mother smells to me.
“You look nice, Oliver James,” she says, pulling away and cupping her hands around my face, using both my first and middle names the way she’s always done since I was small. “Your hair is getting so long. We should make you an appointment for a trim while you’re here.”
And there it is, I think, smiling tightly. A flattering comment followed up with a neat little suggestion on how to improve. My parents are truly the masters of the backhanded compliment. Tapping my fingers against my leg, I resist the urge to touch my hair. It’s really not that long. Just long enough that the ends fan out around the bottom of a beanie when I’m wearing one, which Nils has told me is very cute. I will not be cutting it, no matter what my mother thinks is the respectable length for a grown man’s hair.
“Thanks, Mother.”I think. “Happy anniversary.”
She puts her arm around my waist, heels clicking on the floor as she leads me into the party. She’s easily the more affectionate of my parents, but it’s mostly performative. A way to show off her son and how close she wants people to think we are. Butif I were to try and sit next to her on the couch at home, she’d slide until there was a cushion of space between us. Affection is always withheld until there is an audience to perform for.
“Do you remember Celeste?” she asks, pointing a long-nailed manicured finger toward an older woman standing next to the piano. “She was your violin teacher.”
“Oh, right, yeah.” I squint at her. I don’t remember, but then again, I only did three lessons before everyone came to the conclusion that music was never going to be my thing. “I didn’t know you guys were close.”
“Oh, well, we ran into each other at tennis lessons and got to talking.” She waves a hand like inviting an almost-stranger to her anniversary party isn’t an odd thing to do.
She sweeps me around the room like a handler putting a show dog through its paces. I find myself nodding and smiling like some sort of possessed bobblehead, fingers tapping on a ball glass filled with some type of alcohol I didn’t ask for, words nobody else asked for tumbling from my mouth the moment there is a lull in the conversation. Judging by the looks I’ve been getting, nobody here has ever hauled a lobster trap nor weighed the pros and cons of porcelain over ceramic tiles.
“Where’s Father?” I ask at some point, looking around for a place to put my glass. I’m pretty sure it’s bourbon, and I’m one hundred percent sure I don’t want it. A waiter strolls by, and I place it on his tray, almost immediately wishing I’d kept hold of it. Now I don’t have anything to fidget with.
“Oh, he’s in the lounge, having a cigar with the boys. You should go join him. Here, fix your tie first.”
“I’ll just stay here,” I say quickly, eager to not voluntarily stroll straight into the pits of hell. Having a cigar in the lounge with my father and his friends sounds like nothing but a punishment.
By the time I’ve been introduced to everyone in the room, I’m more than ready to go home. No matter how many times I check the time, however, it doesn’t seem to be moving any quicker. In fact, it appears to have stopped altogether. Father, who finally managed to grace his own party with his presence, asks me questions at a volume just this side of too loud and then interrupts before I can fully answer, usually with a biting retort about how he only needs the pertinent information and not a dissertation. I tell him about my house, leaving out some of the more colorful adventures, watching as his eyebrows climb his forehead by increments.
“For God’s sake, Oliver. If you can’t manage things yourself, just hire someone and be done with it. I’ll pay for it,” he adds, as though I need his help when I’ve been independent my entire adult life. I just shake my head, swallowing down the rest of my words and looking around helplessly for a distraction.
It’s not until later, when the party is winding down and I’ve slowly started the process of inching my way toward the exit, that they touch on the subject of dating. It’s a miracle it took them this long when usually my lack of a suitable partner is their favorite topic. An anniversary party would be just the place for them to remind me that the only anniversary I have to track is the years I’ve spent alone.
“Oliver James, come over here. I want you to meet someone.”Mother snags my elbow, grinning, and points toward a man who’s only just walked in the door. Fashionably late, I notice, which probably makes him smarter than the rest of us fools who have been here from the beginning. I plant my feet before she can tug me along too far.
“Who is it?” I ask warily, pretty certain I already know.
“David’s son, Smith. He’s a surgeon. Come along, I want to introduce you. He’d make an excellent husband.”
“David named his son Smith?” I ask.
“He’s a well-respected surgeon,” she repeats as though I’m daft.
“You could do a lot worse,” Father comments. Clapping me on the shoulder, he adds, “Although he could do better.”
