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So I do what she asks and break it down to essentials. “I’m a sex therapist, focusing on mental wellness and physical satisfaction.”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes blank. “Oh!” she suddenly exclaims, having realized what I said.
Winking at her, I quip, “Exactly.”
I leave out the Bedroom Heaven gig, deciding I’ve already pushed dinner conversation far enough.
But Charles sputters, “You dowhatnow? At my son’s club? Oh, I don’t think so. Chance.”
Charles looks to Chance as though his disagreement will have instant sway, like Chance will jump away from me in horror and hiss, “Back away, demon spawn. And stay away from my club.”
Just because his daddy said so.
Of course, that’s not going to happen.
Chance lets go of my hand beneath the table to pointedly lay his arm on the back of my chair, visibly claiming me to his father. With a deadly smile on his face, Chance tells his father, “The change in our members since Samantha began classes is measurable. She’s worked wonders on my mental health too, helping find my... what’d you call it?”
When he looks at me expectantly, there are so many things I want to say, prostate being at the top of the list because I know it’ll go over like a fart in church. But going easy, I ad-lib, “Your give-a-shitter?”
His eyes sparkle with humor, enjoying this. “Right, she’s helped me find my give-a-shitter and reprioritize what’s important to me. Namely, any type of family approval.”
If I could jump up in my chair and cheer for Chance, I would. Hell, I want to climb up on the table, knock the place settings and China out of my way, punt a candlestick, point a finger at Charles, and shout,“Stick that up your ass! And maybe if you did stick something up there every once in a while, you wouldn’t be such a cold-hearted jerk to your kids!”
But I don’t. One, it wouldn’t be right to rejoice in Charles being put in his place, especially when he’s not going to learn anything from it. And two, because it’s not about Charles. It’s about Chance. So I simply lean into him encouragingly.
I’m so proud of him. Standing up to a parent who’s been doing you wrong is hard. He’s gone through rebellion, trying to prove himself, working to earn favor, and now, to finally not needing any of it from Charles because he’s proud of himself.
“She might be a miracle worker,” Cole whispers to Kayla, who nods like ‘I know!’
Charles looks from Chance to the people surrounding his position at the head of the table, feeling the tides turn against him, and I’m afraid he’s going to say something hurtful. If it’s to me, I can take it. If it’s to Chance, Luna might have to hold me back or use some of herfundingto bail me out of jail. But it’s Miranda who answers, “As long as you’re happy, honey. That’s all we care about.”
Miranda places her hand over Charles’s and with the barest touch calls him off, telling him to shut up and leave her babies alone.
Beth and Miranda both have some powerful mojo.
“I am,” Chance tells his mother, but his eyes are locked on Charles in a battle of wills.
Slowly, conversation starts up again, everyone choosing wisely to avoid the club, Chance, and me as topics.
We’re mid-chatter when the doors to the dining room once again open and a woman enters. She’s tall, blonde, and statuesque in a fitted dress that shows she’s still got a top-notch figure at her age, which I’d estimate to be in her late fifties? Though her face looks a little tight, so maybe sixties?
“Not waiting on the guest of honor?” she accuses, and though she smiles, it looks faker than the orange glow from dollar-store self-tanner.
This must be Aunt Vivian.
At her side is a younger man, whose elbow she’s holding. He’s over six feet tall, blond, and muscled in that gym way that says he never actually physically works. But on another level, he looks like he could be another Harrington brother.
Behind them, a young woman with strangely high cheekbones and large, otherworldly eyes stands in a simple, but expensive looking, black dress. She’s beautiful too, though not in the California wine country commercial way the rest of the Harringtons are.
Chance whispers into my ear, “Cousin Devin and his girlfriend, Bridgette."
Okay, makes sense. The blond guy is a Harrington, just not a brother.
But why is Vivian on Devin’s elbow instead of Bridgette? Does she need help of some sort? Chance didn’t mention that. Or maybe it’s that Vivian is the ‘ranking official’ in their family so she gets the escort, leaving Bridgette the odd woman out?
That’s probably it. Andblech.
“Of course we are!” Beth tells Vivian, not putting up with her accusation of bad hosting for a minute. She’s clearly used to this sort of nonsense. “But when you’re late, you can’t expect everyone to sit around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for their evening to start until you deign to make an appearance.”
