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As soon as she rhymes off the contents on the counter, I’m instantly more irritated realizing what just got interrupted.
“And I am being nice. Be glad it was me and not Dad,” she turns her head to Stassie, “I am nice, I promise. I’m not judging you, well, other than for dating my awful brother.”
I throw myself on the couch across from Sasha, and Anastasia awkwardly hovers on the spot. I pat the seat next to me until she sits, but her temperament is off; she seems uncomfortable. I fuckinghatethat she seems uncomfortable after how good our time here has been.
“Why are you back? I thought you weren’t back until the day after tomorrow? It’s the whole reason our flights are tomorrow.”
“Charming.” She grunts, turning down the volume of the TV and crossing her legs over. “It wasn’t a vacation, it was a retreat for body conditioning to ‘make me stronger’ and, I don’t know, some bullshit about being a better athlete. I spent a total of one hour on the beach. Yesterday I told him if he didn’t take me home I’d never ski again, so he booked us on the next flight out of there.”
I wish I could pretend to be surprised for her sake, but I’m not; in fact, this is exactly the type of shit I would have guessed if I hadn’t been so preoccupied lately. But I foolishly believed he might have listened to my suggestion.
My father always has an agenda. This afternoon is another plot, because why else would you meet someone for the first time in a public place when they’re already in your home?
“What type of mood is he in?”
“His usual. Like someone stuck a very big stick up his ass and he can’t get rid of it.” She gives Stassie an almost menacing smile. “You have any experience with overbearing parents?”
She laughs for the first time since Sash arrived home. “My parents are super nice, sorry.”
Sasha sits and quizzes Stas about every single thing in her life, and to her credit, Stas answers everything honestly. By the time we’re pulling up to the resort, the pair of them are the best of friends. It helps they have a common interest; now, you’d think the common interest would be being sporting prodigies, but no, it’s grinding my gears for fun.
I don’t get to see Sasha enough without Dad and I miss her so much. I miss the person she is when he’s not around, I almost feel sad for Anastasia that the person she just made as a friend is about to disappear the second Dad sits at the table. I hope she understands, and she can tell it isn’t personal.
“You good?” I ask Anastasia quietly, looking at our joined hands where she’s cutting off the circulation to the tips of my fingers. The maître d’ walks us over to Dad’s favorite table and offers us the menus. Unsurprisingly, he’s late for a lunch he organized.
“I’ll have a glass of Dom Pérignon, please,” Sasha says, browsing the menu casually.
The guy looks at me panicked, clearly knowing who we are and not sure what the right answer is. I put him out of his misery, plucking the menu from Sasha’s hands and bopping her on the head with it. “She’s sixteen. Give her a juice box or something.”
“She’ll have a water,” a deep and familiar voice says from behind me. “Hello, Nathaniel,” he says cooly. “And who do we have here?”
FORTY-ONE | ANASTASIA
What’s my name?
Why can’t I remember what my fucking name is?
Ian Hawkins is standing beside me looking like Darth freaking Vader, with his hand outstretched ready to meet me for the first time, and I cannot remember what my goddamn name is. Nate’s hand squeezes my knee, it should be a comfort, but it’s reminding me that I’m not speaking when I should be.
“This is Anastasia Allen, my girlfriend. Stas, this is my Dad, Ian Hawkins,” Nate says calmly, moving his hand to thread it through mine.
Nate’s dad looks like how I imagine Nate is going to look in thirty years. He’s tall, sharp jawed with dark brown hair and big brown eyes. If he wasn’t my new nemesis I might even admit that he’s very handsome, but fuck that.
“Mr. Hawkins, it’s nice to finally meet you,” I manage to force out through the world’s fakest smile, shaking his hand like we’re politicians or something. He takes his seat directly in front of me and I can’t wait to spend this lunch making awkward eye contact with him.
Although right now, he’s more bothered about Sasha’s outfit.
“You didn’t want to get changed out of your plane clothes?” You can’t tell that he’s traveled for fifteen hours; his clothes are immaculate, hair perfectly in place. But with that one sentence, that one sneer in his teenage daughter’s direction, I know everything I need to know about Ian Hawkins.
Her posture changes, she withdraws, her chin lowers.I can’t watch this.“You look comfortable, Sasha. I wish I’d put my sweatpants on too,” I say as cheerfully as I can.
It’s enough to capture his attention again, his eyes meet mine and I don’t look away, as much as I might want to. I feel like I just invited him in, his criticisms, his judgment. I can see him sizing me up, it’s clear in the way his eyes break from mine to scan my face, lowering to look at what I’m wearing. His mouth creeps up. “Tell me about yourself, Anastasia.”
“What would you like to know, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Ian is fine, there’s no need for formality. Judging by the way my son is cutting off the circulation to your fingers, I would speculate that he’s quite attached to you,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “How about we start with where you’re from?”
“Seattle, Washington originally. I’ve lived in Maple Hills for school for the last few years.”
