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Lena made vapid observations about the weather—“We’re in the middle of a heatwave…”—“And the new stoplight on Maple Drive—it’s an accident waiting to happen.”
Meg seemed to be barely listening, and I was in danger of slipping into a coma out of sheer awkwardness and boredom.
“So, what are your plans now that you’re back in Southport?” I asked Meg, interrupting Lena’s diatribe about the best way to get stains out of car upholstery.
Meg lifted her shoulders in a shrug, her expression slightly hostile. “I don’t know. I just got here.”
“You must have a plan. You can’t just hang around your mom’s house all day. That sounds boring as shit. You’re an artist, right? You gonna paint something?” I prodded. I was a little boy poking a snake waiting for it to rear back and bite me. I was getting off on the thrill.
Meg’s green eyes were icy. “What’s it to you, Adam? Why are you so interested in what I’ve got going on? Why don’t you worry about yourself?” She practically spat the words out of her mouth.
“Oh, you should check out the gallery in Montgomery, Meggie. It just opened up. There’s some really great stuff—” Lena began hastily, but I cut her off.
“I can’t ask you questions? Am I supposed to sit here mute? Pretend I don’t have things to say? You’d like that wouldn’t you,” I demanded, my voice rising as my irritation grew. So much for playing it cool.
Meg raised an eyebrow, frustratingly blasé. “Mute is probably your best look.”
I felt my blood pressure rise. “I don’t know what your problem is, Meghan, but if you have something to say to me, then just fucking say it already.” I had never called her Meghan. Not once in our twenty-seven-year history. I was making a point by using it now. I was putting distance between her and me. There was no intimate familiarity, not any longer. But I wasn’t going to sit by idly while she treated me like her personal whipping boy. No one got away with treating me like that.
No one.
“Guys, come on. You two need to chill the hell out,” Lena tried to intercede. She should have known better.
Meg slammed her hands down on the table, causing our glasses to shake. “Are you that stupid, Adam? Do I need to spell it out for you?” she seethed.
I purposefully rolled my eyes, knowing it was like throwing lighter fluid on a raging fire. I could practically hear her growl. “If this is about Chelsea, that’s old news. You might need to find something else to hold against me until I die.”
“You are such an asshole. Do you know that? I can’t believe I ever thought you were worth my time. You’re selfish. You’re insensitive. You’re—”
“Incredibly good looking? Your secret fantasy?” I goaded. Poke, poke, poke.
“You’re such a narcissist. As if I would think about you at all.” She was breathing heavily, and I felt a stirring in my groin.
She was gorgeous when she was worked up. Her pale skin was splashed with color; her full lips were parted as she panted with fury, her wide green eyes smoldered with a heat that would burn me up if I wasn’t careful.
And she hated me. I could feel every ounce of her loathing.
Goddamn, it excited me.
Lena put a hand on Meg’s arm. “Meggie, please,” she pleaded quietly, shooting a nervous glance to the kitchen where our parents were.
“No, let her talk, Lena. It’s important not to bottle up how you really feel. Even if it’s totally unfounded and wrong.” I clenched my fists, breathing deeply. I wouldn’t get a hard-on at my parents’ house. That was the next level messed up.
“Wrong? Unfounded? Are you kidding me—?” Meg all but screeched.
“Do you need more wine, Meghan? What about a beer, Adam?” My mom came out of the house like a magically timed bomb diffuser.
Meg sat back in her chair, pushing her hair out of her face. I noted that her hand was trembling. “I’m fine, Marion. Thanks,” she said, and like flicking a light switch, she was calm and pleasant.
“I can get it myself, Mom.” I stood up, and without another look at Meg, I retreated to the kitchen.
Dad was sprinkling seasoning on the steaks and had donned his ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron Mom bought for him two Christmases ago. He glanced up at me as I closed the refrigerator. “It’s nice to see you, son. How’s work going?”
“It’s tough, as always. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I got out a platter and handed it to him.
“I saw Chelsea’s mother the other day,” Dad broached, and I inwardly cringed.
Delilah Lemowitz was a carbon copy of her vacuous daughter from her fake tits to her overly sculpted eyebrows. Delilah had married a man thirty years her senior after Chelsea’s father died. It was love for the zeros in his bank account rather than love for the man that led to the wedding. Her new husband, Ed, was confined to a wheelchair and cared for by the very expensive nurse Delilah made sure to hire as soon as possible. He spent his days drooling on himself while his wife spent his money. My soon-to-be-ex definitely got her bitch ways honestly.
