The white walls are only discernible from the white floors by the streaks of gray in the stone under my feet. I like white, but this house is like 1980s white—white wood with gold fixtures, splashes of yellow, and beveled mirrors where the frames are also mirrors. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to look art deco, but it just looks stupid.
“Hi, Mimi.” I smile, mimicking my mother and embracing her with a kissing sound.
“Oh, you’re getting so pretty,” she coos.
She says that every time. Getting pretty. Not quite there, but getting there.
We walk toward the dining room, down a long hallway, interrupted sporadically with doors on one side and a wall of photos on the other. Black and white portraits from years ago, childhood photos, some of my brother and me, my cousins, Easter Sundays, family picnics on the lawn, and my mother—at sixteen at her ball, on the arm of my father as he stands next to her in a tux, his chin high and a loaded smile on his lips. I pause as my mom and grandmother head into supper.
My parents looked so young.
They were young, I guess. I can’t help but wonder what was going through their heads back then. How ready they were to live. How excited they were to dream about the future—vacations, their home, laughing, family, holding each other… The years spread out before them, and it was only going to be gold, right?
Did they know they were going to do bad things to each other?
Would they go back and do it again?
I walk into the dining room, Tucker holding my chair out for me.
“Thank you.” I sit down.
Taking my napkin, I pull it off the ring, but my mother stops me. “Clay.”
I stop, realizing myself. I set my napkin down and look to my grandmother. She gives me a look, but it has a hint of a smile. Rookie mistake, Clay. When a guest at dinner, take your cues from your host. I wasn’t supposed to lay my napkin in my lap until she’d done it.
She holds out her hand, and I know what she wants. I set my phone in her palm, and she places it on the small tray Tucker holds out next to her.
We start with salad, a citrusy vinaigrette dressing gleaming over the arugula.
“The Senior sleepover is happening soon, right?” Mimi asks. “Have you RSVP’d with Omega Chi at Wake Forest?”
I sip my water, setting it back down. “Mm, yes.”
I feel my mom’s eyes, and I look at her, getting the signal. I straighten and smile, giving Mimi my full attention.
“Yes, Mimi,” I say more clearly. “Dues are paid, and I’ve already reached out to some of the other attendees via social media to get a rapport going.”
“Social media…”
“It’s the standard of the times,” I tease, finishing up the small serving of greens.
But she waves me off, picking up her glass. “Oh, I know. I just lament the days of privacy and being able to make mistakes without an audience.”
I hold back my eye roll and smile wider. Old people say things like that a lot, as if the downfall of society started with Facebook.
“That reminds me,” Mimi pipes up again, eyeing my mother, “she needs to delete her Twitter history, and I want access to any other secret accounts, Clay.” She pins me with a look. “Don’t think we’re not aware they exist.”
My shoulders slump, but I put them back again, recovering. I’m not giving her my hidden profiles. She’s the one who told me I could have secrets.
“I’ve been reading articles,” she tells my mom as Tucker brings the next course. “And the experts suggest deleting your history every once in a while to spare any embarrassment down the road. People get fired over a bad tweet from eight years ago.”
I groan inwardly. I wish my grandmother wasn’t so proactive.
“You need to think of your future,” she points out to me. “Your husband and children who could be caught in the crossfire of something stupid you said at this age.”
My mother nods, but Mimi cuts her off. “I would suggest it for you, as well.”
My mom stills, swallowing her retort with her glass of water. I almost snort. One of the reasons I love coming to these dinners is just to see my mom still under her own mother’s thumb just like I’m under hers.
But then I see myself twenty years from now in my mom’s seat and her in her mother’s, my daughter sitting where I am. Every woman at this table is carrying a secret. What will my daughter be hiding?
“The foie gras,” my mom says to Tucker. “Amazing.”
“I’ll tell Peggy.”
His wife is the chef, but I haven’t eaten a bite. This dish is inhumane, and I know my grandmother is challenging me on purpose.
“I have dresses in the den for you to try on for the ball,” she says, cutting into the duck.