I feel a groove dig into my forehead. “Do you know Preston?” There’d been a troubling sense of familiarity in her statement.
“What? Oh, no, I don’t. I mean, I know of him. Cooper told us he was cheating on you—I just assume all cheaters are creeps.” Steph reaches for her coffee, sips it, turning her face away from me for a second before glancing over with a reassuring smile. “And look, don’t worry about Heidi. Cooper’s crazy about you.”
“And Heidi’s been sufficiently threatened to behave herself,” Alana finishes, then reacts with a knitted brow when Steph gives her the facial equivalent of a kick under the table. They’re about as subtle as a jackhammer.
It’s not the first time I’ve caught a similar exchange between the two of them, as if they’re having an entire unspoken conversation I’m not a part of. My relationship with Steph and Alana has warmed significantly—and I have no doubts about Cooper’s sincerity where the two of us are concerned—but I get the distinct impression there’s a lot more I don’t know about this tight-knit group. Obviously, I can’t expect to fully penetrate the circle of trust so quickly.
But why does it feel like their secrets are at my expense?
I don’t get the chance to ponder that question, as my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my mother. Again. I woke up this morning to several missed text messages from her, picking up mid-rant from the several missed text messages from the night before. I’ve taken to periodically blocking her number just to get some peace from her blowing up my phone. It’s one tirade after another over my breakup with Preston. There’s nothing left to say on the subject. For me, anyway.
But it seems my mother is determined to force me to talk about it. I glance at my phone to find she’s abandoned texting and is now calling me. I send the call to voicemail just as a 911 text from Bonnie pops up to alert me that judgment day has arrived.
“What’s wrong?” Steph leans over my shoulder, apparently alarmed at the blood draining from my face.
“My parents are here.”
Well, not here. At my dorm. Poor Bonnie’s in lockdown mode awaiting further instructions.
Bonnie: What do I do with them?
Me: Send them to the coffee shop. I’ll meet them there.
I knew this was coming. I’ve been dodging calls and texts, making myself scarce. But it was only a matter of time before they came for my reckoning.
No one walks out on my father.
I bail on lunch with an apology and haul ass back to campus with my blood pressure spiking. After a short phone call, the best I could do was lure them to a public venue. My parents wouldn’t dare make a scene. Here, I have the strategic advantage—and an escape route.
Still, when I walk in the café to see them seated by the window, awaiting their rogue daughter, I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. No matter how old I get, I’m still six years old, standing in our living room as my father berates me for spilling fruit punch on my dress before the Christmas card photo shoot, after he specifically told me I could only have water, while my mother stands fraught in the corner by the bar cart.
“Hey,” I greet them, draping my purse strap over the chair. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. I was having lunch with some friends in town—”
I halt when I read the expression of impatience on my father’s face. He’s dressed in a suit, one sleeve pushed up to expose his watch. I get the message. Loud and clear. He’s missing meetings and who knows what other world-altering events to tend to his errant offspring. How dare I make him deign to parent.
Then there’s Mother Dearest, who’s tapping her manicured nails on her leather Chanel clutch as if I’m also holding her up. Honestly, I couldn’t say what the hell she does all day. I’m sure there’s a call with a caterer somewhere in her schedule. Her weeks are an endless haze of decisions like chicken or fish.
For a split second, as the two of them glare at me with annoyance and disdain, I see the template of their lives superimposed on my future, and it stitches up my side. My throat closes. A full-blown panic explodes through my nervous system. I imagine this is how drowning must feel.
I can’t live this way anymore.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I start, only for Dad to hold up his hand. Kindly shut up, the hand says. Okay then.
“I believe you owe us an apology, young lady.” Sometimes I wonder if my father uses the term because, for a moment, he’s forgotten my name.
“Really, you’ve gone too far this time,” my mother agrees. “Have you any idea the embarrassment you’ve caused?”