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“He needed your Wi-Fi?” she asks, clasping her hands in front of her. She laughs and taps Cooper on the shoulder. “Is that what the kids call it?”
“Mom,” Cooper says, his voice stern.
I say, “It’s okay. I think we’re not quite ready to share pleasantries.”
“Manners are always appreciated, Ms. Salenger.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Standing in silence, I wait for someone else to make a move since I’m merely a distraction to their son in their view. If they only knew that we’d be moving in and starting our life together, maybe they’d sing a different tune.
Tired of the game, I break and drink half my glass of rosé. With all their eyes on me, I just go ahead and finish it. That’s when Cooper steps in. “Story and I are going to mingle.”
“If she’s that thirsty,” his mom starts. “You might want to take a stroll around the punch bowl and steer clear of the bar.”
“Noted, Mother.”
How he emphasizes mother cracks me up. “She’s a regular Mommy Dearest.” I start giggling. He takes the glass and sets it on a tray when a server passes by, along with his drink that he barely took two sips from.
He stops near the tennis court and turns to me. Lowering his head, he looks me in the eyes. “You can’t be drunk that fast.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just over it.”
“Over what?”
Spreading my arms wide, I say, “This.”
He sighs and straightens his spine. Looking around, he says, “I’ve been over it since I was ten. How they treat you, I got it five times over. So I get the frustration, babe. But we need to decide if we’re staying or leaving then because this isn’t how I want you to feel.” He cups my face and caresses my cheek with his thumbs. “I think you’re brilliant, beautiful, a heart bigger than the sun, and a soul with more depth than the ocean. You don’t owe these people any part of yourself.”
Cupping his face, I caress him the same way. “Neither do you.”
Our hands fall to our sides again as he looks around. I feel the stares. Becoming self-conscious, I had forgotten myself. So I stand tall and raise my chin, which is still a lot shorter than Cooper. “I think I’ll stick to water. That wine went straight to my head.”
“Hopefully, it doesn’t go to your stomach, or you’ll be puking soon.” We start walking toward the buffet. “Why don’t you get something to eat, and I’m going to talk to my dad in private. I don’t want anything left out on the table. It’s time to deal with this and figure out where things stand.”
I lift on my toes and kiss him. “I think that’s a wise idea. It’s information. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” He kisses me like he’s about to go into battle, and I, shamelessly, love it that he’s making a statement.
He stalks off on a mission while I pick up a little white plate with gold edging on a mission of my own. Strawberries and mini quiches, brioche buns, and colorful macarons are already filling my plate. I’m debating the Havarti slices or the tiny brie cheese when I hear, “Cheese goes right to my hips.”
I look up. Camille is standing on the other side of the table with only one strawberry on her plate. Her gaze darts to my lower body, and she adds, “I wish I didn’t care.”
The plate falters in my hands, and I lose a green macaron to the ground. “Let’s not do this, Camille.”
I set my plate down, ready to puke, though it has nothing to do with the wine. With my back turned as I start walking away, she says, “I would have never thought you were his type.”
. . . Annnnnd I bite.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I spin back around. She’s a stick who probably survives off cabbage juice, caffeine, and sucking the fun out of a room. “And what type is that, Camille? I know you’re dying to say it, so just say it, and let’s get your body-shaming out in the open.”
She gasps, literally clutching her pearls. “Pointing out the truth is called constructive criticism.”
“Okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re cruel, and you’re desperate. That isn’t ever going to attract Cooper. My thighs may touch in the middle, but he fucking loves them, especially when his face is buried down there.”
Her necklace snaps, and the pearls fall to the ground. When tears fill the corners of her eyes, she bends to search for the pearls in the grass.
And now I hate myself for stooping to her level. She may have been cruel, but that’s not who I am or who I want to be. She brings out the worst in me, someone I don’t even recognize who flagrantly used the love of my life to destroy her. “That was mean. I’m sorry, Camille.”
