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I think about addingyou deserve each other, but stop myself, because I feel… nothing. No hatred for Tommy. No sadness for myself. Perhaps some pity for Cassandra who has no idea she’s wearing a ring Tommy promised another woman forever with. But beyond that, nothing. In fact, my dry throat is more about the surprise of seeing them here than the hurt of losing him.
He's someone I used to know. Someone I was once close with. Now he’s just a man who I’m relieved is no longer part of my life.
I walk slowly to Mother and Father, keen not to look as if I’m running away. Her face lights up when she sees me. His does a top to toe before pursing his lips in a perpetual frown.
“Happy anniversary.” I kiss her cheek before doing the same with my father. “Congratulations. What an accomplishment.”
“Olivia, you look lovely, though you know I love your winter skin even more.” Mother holds me at arm’s length, studying me. “Your frame is lovely. I thought you’d get soft when you got off meat, but it looks like you’ve done okay.”
If I were counting, is that two insults or three?
“Did you bring a wrap?” Father asks.
Definitely up to three now.
“No, sir. The forecast called for a perfect night. Perfect timing for a party.” I smile inwardly knowing he either has to insult me or Mother. Either I’m underdressed or she planned poorly. He knows it too.
I look around the party from their vantage point. “Mother, the details here are extraordinary. Are you pleased with how things turned out?”
She launches in about a catering snafu that no one here will ever know, how the wait staff had tuxes with no tails, and she specifically requested tails on the servers.
I’m exhausted hearing about the minor inconveniences she calls problems, but I successfully maneuvered off the topic of my tan or my being vegan, which are nuisances in her very stringent day of sudoku and hot tea.
“I keep saying we need to get to Florida for a visit. Your father is tenured, so there’s no reason we can’t make the time. Thanksgiving might be nice. Though, is it hot down there in November? I can’t imagine a warm Thanksgiving. And who would cook? No. Perhaps we should consider another time when it’s better for Natalia too. And not a food-centric holiday.”
Luckily, she’s continued without even looking for my participation in the conversation. I wonder if Father tunes her out the way she tunes out most of the world during her verbal free association.
“That’s a good idea, Mother. Thanksgiving is a workweek for me.”
“Oh, I forgot. How do I keep forgetting? When do you think you’ll go into private practice? Don’t answer that. I know you’re in your ‘exploring phase.’” She uses air quotes. “And enjoying your time down south. You’ll want to be established and have a place you’ll stay before you begin the process of setting up a private business. The idea of wintering there is certainly pleasant, but living there permanently?” She shivers as if the idea is untenable.
I let her go on. I could say I have no intention of moving back to Boston. I could say I like Florida. I could say I love my job and private practice isn’t on my radar.
Instead, I do what is expected because expectations are the axis on which this family rotates. I hmm and nod at all the right times. At other times, I use my champagne flute—still full minus the two sips I took earlier—to gesture to the crowd and the house. When people begin pressing in for congratulations and small talk, I slip away, but only after confirming I’ll be here in the morning for brunch.
I head for the house, intent on leaving, only to see Tally on her way out the back door. The trifecta is complete. Tommy, my parents, and Tally.
“Hey, Tally.” I lean in and kiss her cheek.
“Tally?” The man at her side has a quizzical look on his face.
“Michael, this is my sister, Olivia. Olivia, this is Michael.”
I extend a hand, shifting my flute to do so. “Call me Livy. Everybody does. Well”—I cock my head to Tally—“everyone but my big sister.”
“Nice to meet you, Livy.” He squeezes my hand, scanning over my head at the party in full swing. “Looks like a packed house. Any boring conversations you can warn us about?”
“No bunion talk that I can recall.”
“Olivia,” my sister snaps as though my comment warrants immediate correction while Michael laughs under his breath. Tally slices her eyes to him.
“Good luck, Michael. Don’t say the word—” I mouth, “Bunion,”behind my hand. “It angers Tally.” I slide past him, setting my flute on the kitchen counter as I go.
As I pass the powder room on the way to the front door, the door opens and an arm shoots out, grabbing me. “Don’t scream,” Tommy says, leaning too close for comfort.
I don’t want to scream. I want to knee him in the balls.
“What do you want?”
