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“We should go,” is all she says as she turns to lead me through the children’s wing and out to our waiting car.
The day continues on as expected. Every so often while my hair is being curled and pinned, while my nails are being shaped, buffed and painted, and while my makeup is being applied with what must be a spatula for how thick it is, my mother reminds me of my role in life.
You’re promised to Mason Strom.
You are to act with grace and decorum.
Mason calls the shots, and you’re to happily go along with them.
And always,always, remember to smile.
Even the hairdresser, nail tech and makeup artist glance at my mother like she’s insane. But I smile because one wrong move will trigger my mother’s unhappiness.
Not that I care too much about her happiness, especially when I’m miserable, but when she’s unhappy, my father is unhappy, which only leads to me being put on lockdown.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about telling them all to fuck off.
I’m eighteen now.
Technically an adult.
Per law, I can make my own decisions.
Those decisions also carry consequences, and without a job, a degree or anything else that would help me support myself, pulling theadultcard would only leave me homeless.
It’s difficult to claim you’re an adult when you have no means of doing all the normal adult things.
That’s the reason I have no choice but toalwaysremember to smile.
It’s also why I’m still smiling when the doorbell rings later that night.
Already, my mother has guided me to my usual position for this godawful tradition:
On the third step of the large winding staircase that faces the foyer, my arms delicately placed on the banister, my spine straight, shoulders rounded yet feminine, and my mind buried in so much misery I think I might barf.
Apparently, I’m not the only one.
As soon as my mother opens the door with her usual flourish, and after our fathers clap each other on the shoulders before shaking hands, Mason walks in looking just as miserable as me.
He doesn’t bother to look up at where he knows I’m standing. We’ve done this more times than I can count, and each time feels worse than the last.
Still, Mason looks gorgeous.
Standing at six foot three, he hasn’t fully filled out in the shoulders and chest to match his height, but his lean physique is perfectly complemented by the cut of his suit, the jacket just a touch darker than his hair, and the white shirt doing nothing to hide his flat, toned stomach where it’s tucked into pants that hint to his narrow waist and muscular thighs.
I’m sure our mothers were the ones who coordinated his tie to match the emerald color of my dress.
After our parents are done with their discussions, my father touches Mason’s shoulder to guide his attention to me as a grand presentation of the woman who waits on the stairs to be noticed.
The formality of this tradition is insanely ridiculous, but here we are, doing it for the hundredth time.
Mason’s light blue eyes finally flick up my direction, his lips tilting down into a scowl at the corners, but I smile regardless. Only because my mother would murder me if I didn’t.
We manage to make it through another round of stiff photographs, our bodies barely touching as he places the corsage on my arm, and I pin the boutonniere to his lapel, the flash of the camera blinding both of us so badly that we have to be careful making our way back down the stairs.
“Are they old enough?” Mason’s mom asks, her voice regal and teasing.
My mother laughs in response. “Oh, I think so.”
