“Which one are yo—” Filling the screen is the piece I did for Yusef and Hertio. She’s zoomed into the facial feature detailing, the eye creases and laughter lines around mouthsmore used to goading each other and sipping from that magical flask. Mason took photos of my work. Why?
Mason appears at my other side, a fresh drink in hand, and slings his other arm around my shoulders protectively. It’s a comfort I crave. “I did,” I whisper, nodding economically.
“You need a showing at the gallery! Your work is exquisite. I’ve seen some hyperrealism in my time, and that is incredible. Promise me you’ll stay in contact with me, even if you quit your job because my brother is an ass. Promise me we can remain friends! He may have found you, but I get to keep you.”
“Nic!” Frazer pinches his wife’s thigh at the same time Mason assures us all that no one is going anywhere.
We’re usheredinto the formal dining room next to the sitting room we occupied when doors were slid aside to reveal the splendor. This new room has a view of the immaculate tree next door, but not to be outdone, features its own meticulously decorated tree soaring toward the lofty coffered ceiling. Every ornament is shimmering crystal glass or jeweled opaque mirrors. All are sized in a layered step-down like obedient Babushka dolls, starting with the larger, basketball-sized spheres nearer to the floor, and finishing with little golf ball replicas toward the top. The tree looks majestic, and I’m ready to say so until I realize that this wasn’t decorated by an eager family bonding one evening and perfecting ornament placement to counteract an excited dog’s swishy tail.
“It’s professionally decorated. All eleven of them are,” Mason deadpans. “None of what you experience today has anything to do with my mother. She’ll just take credit for it all.”
A melody of chimes sounds, and Alice glides past, rolling her eyes. “That will be Mitchel and his currentactivity. Whoneeds an elf on your shelf when you have a whore at your door?”
“Mother!” Nic hisses. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“Only stating facts, child,” Alice sneers. “If she thinks she can tap into Mercer money by tricking him into a pregnancy, she is sadly mistaken.”
“How very rich, coming from you,” Mason adds just loud enough for his mother to hear, and scowl back at her youngest son.
“Do not start with me today, Mason. I’m still annoyed that you canceled our lunch.”
“Eating with you multiple times a year puts me off my food. I’d rather stick to the days I have to, like today.”
Her soulless sneer morphs into a face of radiant delight at the sight of Mitchel and his partner, later introduced to us as Yujin, which translated from Korean meanspreciousorvaluable. She’s a diminutive Korean lady with pearly skin and glossy coal hair tied back in a similar chignon to mine at the nape of her slender neck.
“Valuable… ain’t that the fucking truth,” Mason whispers. “If she’s carrying a son like Mitchel said, then she’s just cemented everything he’d ever need. Or so he thinks.”
“Your tie looks incredibly festive, dear,”Marin says across the table. “I can’t quite read the bottom. Tell me, what does it say?” Trystan beams like a top student recognized by the principal. Without missing a beat, he throws his boss under the bus. “Mason has the same one in blue, Marin. Mas, turn a little so your grandmother can read your tie better.”
Kill me, kill me now. Without a lick of embarrassment, Mason lifts his tie toward her face so she can read it. “I’m thegift, come sit,” she drawls, her eyes taking in the cursive words around the anatomically impossible snowman. “Oh, that’s cute. I like that.”
The snowman looks like any typical juvenile graphic, only this one has buttons for every facial feature. The ubiquitous carrot is massive, pointing upward and made to mimic an erect penis, with the invitation to sit on it being thinly veiled adult humor. I thought it was hysterical and bought one as a gag gift for both Mason and Trystan, thinking they would laugh and relegate them to the back corners of their wardrobes where they belong.But no—both men wore theirprivategag ties out to the Mercer family Christmas spectacular. With Marin Mercer holding the end of her grandson’s tie, reading aloud, the hilarity that consumed me when I purchased them has slithered away to be replaced with an uneasy feeling of impending doom. Button those jackets, boys. Jesus.
“How incredibly gouache,” Alice murmurs. “Polyester. Really?” Her shoulders shake as if experiencing eight hairy legs creeping across her nape.
Nic interjects. “That’s hilarious. Where did you find them, Sabrina, I want one for Fraze!”
We continue to eat in companionable silence, most of the conversation flowing between Nic, Frazer, Trystan, Mason, Marin, and me. The rest of the Mercers and Mitch’s baby momma are sullen. Part of me wants to drag her down to our end of the table and get to know her more. Another part of me circles back to Mason’s rundown of the Mercer Group meeting and what Michael and Mitchel want to put in place once Magnus retires. How do you just snip branches off your family tree like unworthy, decayed limbs? My conversation with Alice in the conservatory reminds me how efficiently she dealt with superfluous items. Snip, drop, gone. As if it had never been there in the first place.
We arrive at the annual New Year’s Eve Governor’s Ball; a folly of masquerade bullshit tied up to showcase the glamorous and glided off via filtered photographs and edited video snippets to the world. Our media covers the event, as most do. Stock footage of the ball dropping is preceded by shimmering gowns and opulent masks to protect the privacy of each partygoer. Some declare their outfit selections prior so social commentary can feature their designers and mask makers as part of their hyped buzz. Me? I relish anonymity. In my almost thirty years, I’ve been plagued by a label I never wanted, made to fit inside a box I never asked for. Every year I don the same classic Armani tux that about a quarter of the male guests will wear. I chose the plainest black mask possible and insisted on my dates doing the same. Classic and understated; anonymous.
Only tonight, Bri glimmers in an inky navy blue so dark it’s almost midnight. The same color her irises bleed into before they meet the coal-black depth of each pupil. The gown I chose for her at Christmas was more to cover the marks of our passionate lovemaking and save her any potential embarrassment from any snide family slights; tonight I want her toshine. I want her to fit in amongst the elite and entitled, the way she deserves to be onmyarm. She is so different from the nervous young woman who arrived at my office to interview for a position she never wanted. She’s bloomed and blossomed.In some ways, deep down, I have too. Sabrina has taught me to appreciate life as it comes. No filters, no masks, and no Mercer manipulation. I wish I had met the woman years ago when I found out what I did with the test results and lab file confirmations.
Perhaps she might have guided me through the months of unease and identity crisis. Perhaps she would have been my sole EPA, and I’d never want or need another woman ever again. Between Trystan’s staunch support and stoicism, and Bri’s unwavering loyalty to me and my emotional welfare, I have something my family lacks. Reality. Bona fide people in my corner for the first time. Trystan has been my one constant, of course, but his loyalty stems from wanting something I can never offer him. I want more than anything to be the person he needs, but I recognize I’m not, and maintaining that pretense is unhelpful for both of us. I think we’re about done with the metaphorical masks for a while. Tonight marks the last time I’ll ever have to wear one;metaphorical or physical.
“You look nervous. I’ve never seen you nervous before.”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?” I ask, intrigued.
“Well, you’ve checked your watch four times in the past minute. And we’re not late. So…”
“I’m not sure they’re nerves. I don’t know, I’m just…”
“Anxious? Uptight? Incredibly sexy in that tux.” The corners of her perfect, plump mouth turn up wickedly.
“Ms. Broe, please continue with the last statement. I love how your brain works.”
“I would love to. But Terry just texted that he’s downstairs. Shall we?” She offers her crooked arm for me to accept, preempting my offer. Oh, she’s in a playful mood tonight. After the week we’ve all had, we could do with a distraction.
