“Hey, Rory girl. I was just calling to make sure you were on for dinner tomorrow.” We had dinner on Sunday nights at my parents’ house every week, barring some catastrophe, and have done so since I could remember.
Something was up and I didn’t think I was going to like it.
“Is tomorrow Sunday?” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
“Is that a trick question?” Sometimes Dad had a hard time with my sarcasm. It was actually kind of fun messing with him.
“Of course I’m coming over. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, no reason. Your mother just wanted to make sure.” Sloane was giving me a questioning look, but I waved her off. She paused the movie so she could eavesdrop.
“I’ll be there.”
“Fantastic. Well, see you tomorrow.” He hung up before I could say good-bye.
I stared at my phone for a second.
“What’s up?”
“That was my dad. He’s being really weird and shifty about dinner tomorrow, and I think I know what that means,” I said.
“Fin’s in town,” Sloane said, stating the obvious.
“Must be.”
Time for a little backstory. Fintan “Fin” Herald and I had known each other since we were in diapers and went to the same school until sophomore year when he transferred. Fin’s dad and my dad played golf, our mothers went shopping and we grew up not that far from one another. So, of course, we were destined to fall madly in love and get married and make adorable babies per both our sets of parents’ wishes.
Only problem in that charming little picture was that Fin and I . . . just . . . weren’t. I mean, I was only sixteen when Mom had forced us to try to date, but I was smart enough to know that we would never work.
“Yup, Fin must be back in town. I smell a setup.” I’d been there, done that, saw the movie, read the book, saw the crappy sequel. Besides, I hadn’t seen the guy in years. We’d somehow missed each other on breaks and during the summer, and I’d been able to weasel my way out of every other setup my mother had planned since high school. We weren’t even friends on Facebook.
“You could tell them you’re seeing someone,” Sloane suggested.
“But then they’re going to want details, and I can’t give them. You know my parents. They have been trained in interrogation techniques. I swear, those people could get anything out of anyone.”
I sighed and turned my phone off and sat back down with Sloane. I didn’t have to think about how my parents were going to pitch Fin to me as a prospective mate right now. I’d deal with it tomorrow.
~*~*~
“So, Fin’s back from France for a few weeks to see his parents,” Mom said just as we were starting our salads. Wow, we didn’t even get to the main course before she ambushed me. I thought I was at least going to make it that far before having to defend myself. They’d brought out the big guns and now I had to dive into a foxhole and take cover and try to think of a new strategy before the artillery shells started falling.
I got nothing.
“That’s great. I bet they’re really happy to see him.” Fin worked for his father’s PR firm and traveled all around the world to work specifically with foreign companies to help them make it in the US markets. I only knew that because Mom liked to keep me apprised of his doings.
“Maybe the two of you could catch up. I’m sure he’d love to see you,” Mom said, as subtle as an air raid.
She shared most of my looks, but I had my father’s eyes at least. Eva Clarke was one of those women who made any outfit shine. Seriously, we could put on the same thing and she would look like she was ready to stroll the runway or be in a magazine and I would look like a homeless person.
Tonight she was casual in a burgundy skirt and crisp white shirt. How that woman could eat an entire three-course dinner and not get anything on her shirt was beyond me, but I could count the times my mother had ever spilled anything on a white shirt on one hand.
Why didn’t inherit this gift?, I asked myself as I dropped a cucumber slice down the front of my (not white) shirt and into my lap.
“Sure, maybe we will.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Mom hated it when I did that.
“Well, I took the liberty of giving him your new cell phone number, so expect a call from him anytime,” she said, spearing the last leaf of lettuce on her plate and popping it in her mouth.
“Mom!” I ended up dropping my fork and having to fish for it under the table. Yes, my parents had money, but they were not multiple fork people, only had a person come in once a week to clean, and there was no personal chef in sight. My parents took turns cooking, and it was actually really funny to watch when they tried to cook together.