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I level an accusing stare my mother’s way. “It’s not just us?” The only reason I agreed to this trip was I thought it’d be a chance to spend some time with her. So far, the extent of that has been the ride from the airport to the hotel.
“You’ll like Paul. He has a son your age.”
“So this is…what? Some sort of twisted double date?”
My mother’s eyes flash. She leans forward and opens her mouth. Then, disturbingly, her expression completely transforms. A frown becomes a smile. Annoyance turns pleasant. “Hello! How are you two?”
“Not as good as the star of the New York Fashion Show,” a man’s voice replies.
My mother preens. I throw up a little in my mouth as a tall, middle-aged man leans down to kiss her cheek, then hands her a bouquet of flowers. A broody, blond-haired boy follows. With a start, I realize I recognize him. It’s Adrian Blackford. He’s one of the stars on the teen drama Lana is obsessed with. His father looks familiar, too. I’m guessing he’s involved in the fashion industry somehow.
“Auden. So lovely to finally meet you.”
“You, too…” Any goodwill my politeness earns with my mother is quickly washed away by my very obviousWho are you?Something she could have very easily rectified by so much asmentioningthis guy to me more than thirty seconds ago.
To his credit, the man doesn’t seem fazed. “Paul Blackford.”
“Nice to meet you,” I lie.
“This is my son, Adrian.” Paul nudges his offspring, who gives me a forced smile I recognize from many an event I didn’t want to attend. Maybe he’ll be a kindred spirit.
“Hi, Adrian. I’m Auden.”
“Hey.” He takes the seat beside me, giving me a side look that’s half-assessing, half-admiring.
I start to get the sense this will be a long evening.
Paul orders half the menu, most of which is raw fish. When the waiter glances toward me and Adrian’s side of the table, I don’t waste any time. “Vegetable tempura. Just keep it coming, please.”
Adrian raises his eyebrows.
Paul smiles. “Not a fan of fish?”
“Meat,” I correct. “I’m a vegetarian.” Paul glances at my mother, like maybe this is a detail he should have known about me, a detailsheshould have known about me. “Probably just a phase, though,” I add sweetly.
That was my mother’s favorite line when I announced my new diet, and the one she’s reverted to any time it’s come up in the past six years. Based on the way her lips tighten, she knows I’m not attempting to be magnanimous.
“It’s good to try new things,” Paul replies.
I’m tempted to respond with a snarkySpeaking of new things, when did you two become a thing?but I bury the urge. It won’t make this dinner pass any faster. Plus, Paul actually does seem nice. He asks me questions as I nibble on fried veggies, appearing genuinely invested in my answers. I almost feel bad for him. Since the divorce, my mother’s attention span with men tends to be short. I could count on many hands the number of times I’ve met one for the first and last time.
Paul seems oblivious to that inevitable fate, or maybe just hopeful for a different outcome. Sadly, I can relate, and I also wish I’d inherited my mother’s penchant for no emotional attachment. My personal takeaway from the past few days is that sex is fun and love sucks. I guess I get why one-night stands are so popular in college, but I can’t picture sharing the intimacy I experience with Elliot with a stranger, either.
Looks like celibacy and I will become good friends again.
It’s late by the time my dinner companions decide to call it a night. Paul did most of the talking. I hardly know anything more about Adrian than I did when I sat down; my mom didn’t take the same interest in his hobbies that Paul took in mine. I might have initiated a conversation myself—Lana will be furious to learn I didn’t—if not for the fact that he spent most of dinner looking at my boobs.
My mom and Paul get waylaid by another designer on the way to the door. I forge ahead, deciding the summer heat is preferable to the chilly restaurant and fake smiles. The temperature outside has cooled, barely. It feels good for about ten seconds. Like taking a sip of a hot drink in winter. Rather than cold air erasing warmth, humidity sticks to my skin and coats my hair. For once, I don’t think it has a prayer against the professional-grade hairspray my mother’s stylist used.
“Had your fill of the happy, blended family bullshit?”
I spin to see Adrian sauntering toward me, his hands shoved in his pockets. The product in his hair glimmers under the glare of city lights.
“You could say that.”
He stops next to me and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Want one?” He holds one out to me.
“No. Thanks.”
