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“Hey, Stass,” Cooper says, “remember the time you said you wanted to be just like Aunt Connie someday? You’re almost there.”
I remember them talking about Aunt Connie. She was their crazy aunt that visited once or twice a year, the chain-smoking, Buick-driving, casino-loving, polyamorous, vivacious older sister of Mrs. Hutton. They all loved her as kids, until they realized she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
Stassi gives him a look. “You guys always made fun of her, but she dated one of the Beach Boys and she was Pamela Anderson’s personal assistant for an entire year in the nineties before hightailing it overseas and shacking up with some French chef until she moved to Amsterdam and traveled the countryside with an eight-piece folk band. She was amazing. She really lived.”
We all stare at her for a beat, letting that sink in.
And then I realize they’re speaking of her in past tense.
“I think she just liked her vodka tonics too much,” Cooper says with a shrug.
Aidan laughs. Mrs. Hutton gives them severe looks.
“You can make fun of her all you want, but I always adored her,” Stassi says, setting Taffy down and smoothing her hair back into her ponytail. “I don’t think I’m worthy of the Crazy Aunt title yet, but maybe someday, and if I am, I’ll be honored because it’ll mean that I actually lived my life instead of letting my life happen to me.”
We fall into silence. She looks around at us, then kisses the top of Taffy’s head.
“Anyway, thanks for dinner. Good to see everyone,” Stassi announces.
Mrs. Hutton jumps up in alarm, as if her daughter just announced she was going to jump off a bridge. “Wait, what? You just got here. What about dessert?”
Stassi shakes her head and reaches for her phone, showing the display to her. “I have an Uber waiting outside and a bunch of things to get done at home.”
Hell, looks like she always planned to make this trip a pit stop. I bet she ordered that Uber the second she got out of the one that brought her here.
“Can’t they wait?” Mr. Hutton asks.
“Unfortunately no,” Stassi says, making her way around the table and giving everyone hugs and kisses.
Everyone except me.
She skips over me, as if I’m a rock in her path.
And then she breezes out.
I don’t want to make it seem like I’m thinking about her, but I figure now, while she’s on everyone’s mind, is the only time I’m going to have to bring it up. “
“So what has she been up to, lately?” I venture casually. “She was like, valedictorian, wasn’t she? Always figured she was going to get out of this place, move to a big city somewhere and get a high-powered job. Take over the world. That sort of thing.”
There’s a short pause. Then Aidan says, “You didn’t hear?”
“Jonathan happened,” Cooper mutters, fingering the rim of his wine glass.
Mr. Hutton clears his throat. “That’s not fair. She got past that.”
“Then Mason happened,” Cooper adds, staring down at his empty beer bottle like he’s contemplating a refill—or worrying about Stassi. Maybe both. “She hasn’t had the best luck with love.”
“Who’s Mason?” I ask.
Her mother frowns, drawing in a long breath. “Mason was her college sweetheart. They dated all four years and he proposed shortly after graduation. They moved to New York, got jobs and a nice apartment. They were planning their weddings, their careers, their whole lives. They had it all. But unfortunately didn’t work out.”
Aidan rolls his eyes. Mr. Hutton clears his throat.
“Is that what you call it? Not working out?” He looks at me, snorting. “Two weeks before the wedding, she found out the asshole had a side piece, pretty much the entire time they were together. He only fessed up because he got the other girl pregnant. After that, Stassi quit her job, moved home, and basically checked out of life. Said she was trying to figure out her next move, but she’s been working at Ted’s for about a year now and it doesn’t look like it’s going to change any time soon.”
“What was she doing in New York?” I ask. “For work, I mean?”
“Public relations,” Mrs. Hutton says, a hint of melancholy in her voice. “Her firm represented some Fortune 500 tech companies and some smaller start-ups. She was so good at what she did. They were about to promote her, too, when everything … happened.”
“How much longer are we going to let her mope around?” Aidan asks. “At some point, I feel like we need to stage an intervention.”
I blink, trying to pick a single follow-up question from the dozens that invade my head, when Mrs. Hutton shushes them.
“Don’t say that. She’s not moping. She’s resting. Yes, she was overwhelmed, heartbroken, devastated, and she was working a highly stressful job. She decided to come home, unplug a little. She’s getting things back together, taking care of herself.”
