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“Is that all?”
“What are you asking me?”
She measures Foster, who is sitting across from us. “He’s a very handsome man.” She pauses. “And comes from a good upbringing.”
I groan. “He’s nice, Mother,” I state, giving her zero satisfaction.
As the server fills the water glasses, my mother leans forward, addressing Foster, “So, you and my daughter know one another?”
“We do.” Foster narrows his brows. “We know each other pretty well actually.”
“She tells me that you work together?”
“Yes. I’ve had the enjoyment of working with EJ since early fall quarter.”
“EJ?”
“I thought that was how she liked to be addressed?” he challenges, unfolding the napkin and placing it on his lap.
“Oh, that’s right,” my mother politely plays off, lightly dabbing her brow. “I forgot. I’ve always called her Evelyn.”
I give Foster an angered look, begging him not to prod the cow next to me any further.
“Maybe it’s time for a change?” he suggests, ignoring my silent cue.
My mother stiffens. “I’m always open to new ideas.”
“That’s very…proactive of you.”
Resisting the urge to kick him under the table, I turn my focus toward the polite conversation happening between my father and Susan. Always the charismatic man, my dad is attentive during the discussion. My mother finds the appropriate places to comment as well, keeping everyone engaged. She executes social grace with effortless perfection.
Foster partakes in idle conversation with his brother, sporadically peeking in my direction.
For possibly the first time in my life, I’m at a loss for how to behave in a situation. I’ve been groomed and trained for these occasions, but the man across the table has pulled the wool over my eyes, leaving me in a stupor. Foster continues to surprise me—first, with what he is, and now, with who he is.
When the first course is delivered, the table falls silent to enjoy the meal. Foster and I share many wordless looks, both of us playing the polite counterparts in order to get through this awkward and somewhat revealing ordeal. We definitely need to talk once we have a private moment—to clear the air, if nothing else.
He’s kept his wealth hidden, as have I. There are many reasons to do so—privacy, judgment, and protection, to name a few. Mine is to protect the fantasy that I can lead a typical life.
I wonder about his reasons.
“Evelyn,” Susan addresses me when she finishes a bite of her salad, “your mother mentioned that you’ll be heading to graduate school come this fall. That must be very exciting for you.”
Foster audibly drops the fork to his plate.
“I’m weighing my options,” I politely tell her. “There’s still time.”
“Oh, yes, of course. You wouldn’t want to make a hasty decision.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Foster adds loud enough for everyone to hear.
“How about yourself?” my father questions the man across the table from me. “What are your plans for the fall?”
“I’ll be heading to the Knight Management Center.”
“Stanford Business School,” my mother states, her tone laced with respect. “That is quite impressive.”
“Foster is very adamant about his studies,” his mother comments. “He’s quite determined.”
