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"It's going to be fine," he said for the millionth time as he rounded the corner of Ashdale Boulevard.
One street closer to the pit of hell...
"You have no idea what we're dealing with," she said.
"We're dealing with people who drop in unannounced because they don't trust you to handle your life as an adult. In terms of actions speaking louder than words, that's one hell of a doozy."
"If that was all it was..." She trailed off. How could she explain Frank and Linda Ford to a person who'd never experienced that keen combination of cool disinterest and stinging disapproval? Like the emotional equivalent of getting a paper cut on sunburned skin. Neither are really your fault, but you still hate yourself for having to deal with it. Like if you'd just zigged instead of zagged, it all could have been avoided.
"I know how to explain it. Have you ever seen a documentary on Pol Pot?" She started, but Garret burst into laughter.
He definitely did not understand.
"It's going to be fine," he parked the car outside of the hotel's bar attached restaurant, and when the engine shut off, he turned to face her. "You're a grown woman. You're a successful professional. What can they do to you? Ground you?"
I wish that was the worst of it...
"Maybe you're right," she said, knowing he wasn't, but going along anyway. In the end, maybe she was freaking out over nothing. Once she was married, none of it would matter. They'd have something to tell their friends about. And then, once she'd finally made it, her fake divorce would be completely overshadowed. This was just part of the plan. This suffering was temporary. All of it was temporary.
“Now, we just have to have a great evening. You ready?” he nodded toward the building, but she shook her head. She wasn’t even a quarter of the way prepared. Before facing them, she had to have her war paint—those shades of make-up her mother had specifically picked out so she didn’t look like “a two-bit hussy.”
Then, of course, she’d also need a few stiff drinks. And maybe a sedative. Or seven.
She scrambled for her makeup bag, but Garret caught her hand and an electric spark traveled over her skin.
"It’s going to be fine," Garret said again. “You look incredible.” Without another word, he climbed from the car and made his way to open the door for her. Once he’d held her out, he brushed a strand of hair from her face and gave her a stern nod. “You’re ready. And so am I,” he said.
The place's windows were wide, a perfect accent to the low lighting and dark stained wood of the old-fashioned parlor within. Through the panes, Rachael could already spot the back of her father's distinguished greying head and her mother's professionally coiffed curls.
"That's them," she pointed to her mother's pressed cream suite. Something she'd probably gotten on her last trip to Sak's Fifth Avenue.
"Nice outfit," he nodded.
"Yep." She looped her arm in his, biting back the warning that their clothes were the only thing nice about her parents.
Eliza's car parked with a squeal beside theirs just before they'd opened the door. Her music still blared as she beat one hand against the steering wheel and straightened out with the other.
Thank god for little sisters.
When she finally cut the engine and clambered from the car, she jutted out and hip, a frown settling over her face.
"Did you forget about showing a united front? You were just going to leave me to walk in by myself?" Eliza asked in mock outrage.
"Sorry, I was a little distracted."
Eliza walked past them and flung open the door, "I totally get it. No worries. Now, deep breath, shoulders back, and glide."
Just like that, her childhood was back. Her younger sister skated across the floor like a ballerina and she followed, channeling her cotillion days. When they reached the varnished oak bar top, she had half an urge to curtsy when her mother's narrowed gaze finally landed on her.
"So nice to see you." Without getting up and leaning any closer toward her, her mother moved her head from side to side and kissed the air. Almost as if that could be counted for affection.
"Hello, mother." She nodded, then turning toward her father added, "Hello, father."
Eliza hummed the tune to "Camp Grenada" under her breath and Rachael was torn between the desire to hit her or to bust out laughing.
"Shall we find a table?" Her father nodded to a waiter who had clearly already found them a table and they followed along silently.
When they'd reached a wide, circular table in the corner of the room, they all sat and Rachael's mother let out a long sigh.
