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Imogen: She really judged you for it.
Patrick: She's a snob.
Imogen: Probably, but I am too. I'm from Newport Beach.
Patrick: Really? You don't seem like the type.
Imogen: I'll take that as a compliment.
Patrick: Fancy breakfast. Got it.
Imogen: I'll teach you how to make chai.
Patrick: I'll teach you anything you want to know.
ChapterEight
IMOGEN
Sunday dinners are a family tradition. Even when my parents are at their busiest, even when my sister's softball schedule means she's hundreds of miles away, we connect Sunday night for dinner.
Usually, it's here, in their Newport Beach house. I guess it's still my house too. We moved here when I was in middle school, after my parents' business really took off.
We went from living in a tiny apartment to living in a three-bedroom house on the beach.
It's not huge, but it's big enough (and expensive enough). I have my own room.
I linger there, in my space, before dinner. I sit on my twin bed, soak in the dark pink sheets and comforter, the white desk covered in colorful lyrics, the bare walls. No more band posters or photographs or moody poems.
Only pure, clean white.
That's the way they like things—clean.
I don't want to sit through another awkward dinner. Even if it comes with the comfort of Mom's cooking.
Right on cue, the scent of lemongrass fills my nostrils. But that can't be possible. It's my imagination.
Mmm. Beef, coconut, fish sauce, rice.
Maybe it is my imagination, but my imagination is making me hungry. Why is her food so comforting when her presence isn't? It's this blank wall that screamswe can't talk about this.
Worse, Julie doesn't know.
My kid sister has no idea what happened last year and I have to keep things that way.
Awesome.
I try to ignore the scent of lemongrass, but it's too strong. Opening a window doesn't help. The ocean breeze is familiar in its own way.
It's too much, being here. My head is too full. I need to channel my thoughts into words, but my notebook and my laptop are in the car, and I don't have time. I just need a few deep breaths.
There. I find a sense of calm. I meet my sister downstairs; I help Mom set the table.
And I disappear. I stay here, yes. But I don't taste the food (the biggest loss, really). I don't smell the breeze. I don't feel the shifts in the air.
I retreat behind my walls, far from the sharp corners that might hurt me.
It's routine. The same habit I adopted as a kid, when I realized things went more smoothly when I kept my feelings to myself, only stronger. Infinitely more powerful.
