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Unlike me, she looks the part in a sparkly green cocktail dress she insisted on wearing because “this might be her only chance.” Really, I’m betting she and Nash have plans after this, and she knows she’ll win every one of their arguments while wearing that dress. For my sister, that’s probably better than sex, although I’m guessing there will be some of that too.
Ew.
“Do you have a reservation?” the host asks.
“Should be under Andrews,” I say.
The host scans a screen, then my outfit, then makes a brow adjustment that comments on my outfit.
“For four? Two members of your party have already arrived. This way, please.”
As we weave through the restaurant, I can’t help but notice I’m not just the only person in jeans. I also appear to be the only person not in clothing one would wear to a debutante ball. (Or so I assume. I have no idea what people wear to debutante balls, but I’m pretty sure it’s not this.)
“Here we are,” the host says, leading us into a private room. “Please enjoy your evening. Your server will be with you shortly.”
He closes the glass doors on his way out, leaving us alone with my par—Burt and Rhonda Andrews. Guess I can’t really call them my parents anymore, can I?
“Perceval,” Rhonda, formerly my mother, says in a breathless voice. That alone is weird. Weirder still is her urgent push from the table and dash toward me. She pulls me into her arms and squeezes as I stiffen. Paige and I exchange a confused look over her shoulder.
“So good of you to come!” she says, stepping back.
She frames my face and gazes at me with an adoring expression that would be awkward even if we got along. This moment might work in movies, but I can say with certainty that it does not work in private rooms of The Ivy Leaf restaurant in downtown Pittsburgh.
I withdraw from her touch as awkwardly as she initiated it and take the seat across from Burt, AKA my former father.
“And Paige, what a surprise,” Rhonda says dryly.
“Really? You clearly made a reservation for four,” she quips.
Rhonda and Burt frown before directing their attention to me.
“We thought you’d be bringing Larinda,” Burt says.
Huh?
“Why would you think that?” I ask. “Besides, she’s halfway through her set right now.”
“Oh! Why didn’t you say so in your response?” Rhonda says with exaggerated regret. “We could have scheduled this for tomorrow so she could join us.”
“We roll out after the show. We’re only here for a day.”
And why are they being so strange about this? Since when did they care about Larinda’s schedule?
“But hey, I’m here, so let’s get this over with. What did you want to discuss?”
“Oh, honey! Why would you assume such a thing?” Rhonda says. “We told you. We missed you and wanted to mend our relationship.”
“Cut the crap. I know that’s not why I’m here. What do you want?”
“Sweetheart, how can you even think we’d want anything other than a reconciliation with our beloved son?” She even presses a hand to her heart like she’s just learned she lost the family homestead to a rail tycoon two hundred years ago.
“And you can stop talking like a Civil War soldier letter. It’s not making any of this more believable.”
Her frown is a step in the right direction. That I believe.
“Your mother and I just want to make things right,” Burt says.
“My mother? And who would that be? You made it very clear you don’t consider yourselves my parents.”
