6. Chapter Six
Instead of using the middle of the dance floor like usual, I do my cardio off to the side, below where Oliver set up and out of his sight. I always go hard and love to throw myself into it; being able to dance like no one is watching is exactly why I come here to work out. If I wanted an audience, I’d skip Gatsby’s and go fight for a treadmill at the gym with the rest of Austin.
I also don’t want to distract Oliver on his first morning here with flailing. And gyrating. I can already tell he’s fun to fluster, but he’s paying for the peace and quiet.
This morning, I do miss having a wall of sound press in on me from every side of the club while I freestyle to Swedish House Mafia or DMX. But I find a dance workout on YouTube and stick in my earbuds, which is perfect. It keeps me moving for thirty minutes without a break.
After I dance, I usually run all the stairs until I want to puke. The cardio keeps my endurance up for the weekend shifts because they are nonstop. Then I wind it all down with wall Pilates or go home and use the gym at the Grove, our condo complex. It’s small, but it’s fine for strength training.
That’s what I’ll do today, and use that treadmill too, even though it squeaks. I should have given Oliver a heads-up about running the stairs, but since I forgot to, I’m not going to interrupt him now.
When I scoop up my gym bag and pull out my phone, I have four missed texts. They’re all from my mom. I fight the instinct to put my phone away without checking them. I’m already annoyed that she texted. It’s not going to get better when I read them.
It’s also not going to get better if I don’t.
I allow myself a single, frustrated growl. Then I open the texts that arrived in three-minute intervals.
You should come by the house.
I haven’t seen you in a while.
A long while. Are you avoiding us?
It’s passive aggressive to ignore my texts.
This is a three-deep-breaths problem, and I force myself to take them before sliding my phone into my pocket. I’ll need a shower and caffeine to deal with her. I punch in the security code and walk to my car. I grimace, the heat not helping. It’s barely after 10 AM, but it’s stupid hot outside, which means it’s so hot it makes you kind of stupid. I can almost feel my brain slowing down. Worse, it’s so humid it feels like I’m getting licked by the air.
I unlock my car and toss in my bag, and I’m already pressing the ignition before my butt is fully in my seat. I need the A/C. The blessed, divine, arctic A/C.
The second the air hits me, I rest my head on the steering wheel, letting it blow over me even though it’s still warm. I close my eyes, half smiling as I wait for it to cool. My phone rings, and I crack an eye open at the dash screen. It’s my mom.
I ignore it and go back to waiting for the air. By the time the phone sends her to voicemail, the cooler air is blowing. I hit the recirculation button to help it along.
Ah yes. Now I can function. I turn on my summer playlist, put the car in gear, and drive toward home.
Halfway there, my mom calls again. I send it straight to voicemail.
I’m turning into our condo complex, belting out the last verse of a Dua Lipa song when it’s rudely interrupted by my mom calling again. I pull into a parking space and stab “Decline” on the dash screen and let the end of my song play.
When Dua Lipa is done and only when Dua Lipa is done, I check voicemail.
My mom’s voice fills the car, her accent softened and reshaped to sound genteel but still recognizably Texan.
“Madison, honey, I miss your gorgeous face. Come home for a visit. I’ll have Marta fix us some summer salad and this fabulous detoxifying tea Steph Burke told me about, and we can catch up.”
I’m only halfway through her breezy message when the dash screen tells me she’s left another voicemail.
“Madison, really, honey.” There’s a trace of annoyance in her voice. “I hope you aren’t pouting over that last silly fight we had. It wasn’t even a fight. Just an argument. I worry you’re too sensitive sometimes. Let’s both let it go. Call me back so we can make plans.”
I don’t even know what fight she means. Half the time, we can’t agree on whether we’re even having a fight. Things that drive me crazy don’t faze her at all, which only drives me crazier. And she’d say the same thing about me, that I don’t treat things she finds urgent with enough seriousness.
I don’t even have time to figure out which blowup she might mean before a third voicemail starts.
“Madison Leigh, this is ridiculous. It is unbecoming. Unbecoming.” The repetition is forceful. “I cannot believe you would ignore me like this. Your own mother. And with me being so unwell too. I raised you better than to turn your back on your own ill mother. This is unbecoming.”
Glad she said it the third time in case I missed it the first two. The message ends.
None of this is surprising. Not the quickly escalating texts and calls when she doesn’t get an answer immediately. Not the intensity of moving from a sweet invitation to an angry command. Not even her jumping all over me for not visiting her on her sickbed even though she didn’t mention she was sick.
That part, to be fair, should always be assumed. Not that doctors ever find anything wrong with her. That’s because my mother is Mrs. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. Her hypochondria is directly connected to her mood. My mother doesn’t get into bad moods because she feels sick; she feels sick only when she gets into bad moods. And her bad moods start the minute things don’t go her way. I’ve called her out on it. The result was sobbing and an escalation in “symptoms.”
The bottom line is that my mom has no chill. And she’s not even faking. That’s how hypochondria works; she’s convinced she’s as sick as she says she is, which is why calling her out is pointless.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I had some of Elizabeth Bennet’s perks, because of course I’d be the Elizabeth in this scenario. (Doesn’t everyone think she’s Elizabeth?) But I don’t have a gentle Jane or a doting Papa to balance things out. I have a sister who is basically Mr. Collins, and my dad is more like Caroline Bingley than anyone else. Oooh, no, Lady Catherine. My dad is Lady Catherine. Fabulously wealthy with a lousy disposition.
So blessed.
Another call from my mom lights up my dash screen. Better get it over with.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Madison.” Her voice is tight, and my shoulders creep up. “Are you done punishing me?”
“I wasn’t punishing you, Mom. I was working out.”
“For three hours?”
Classic. “Your first text came in less than an hour ago.”
“If you know that, then why didn’t you answer it?”
I drop my head against the seat and stare at the ceiling. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to need an answer as she barrels ahead.
“You’ll come over now that you’re done?”
“It’s a busy day, Mom.” It’s not, so don’t ask me why.
“Why?” she demands.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but before I can even come up with something, she’s on the attack again.
“Has that club decided to extend their hours for the trashiest lunch service in town?”
I can say Gatsby’s isn’t trashy for the hundredth time, or I can pivot. There’s a rational choice to simply not argue here. I don’t make it. “It’s not trashy.”
Even the most reasonable former Dallas debutante will never be convinced that working as a bottle girl—no matter how upscale the club—is anything but trashy. As far as “reasonable former Dallas debutantes” go, my mom is two of those three things.
“It’s certainly not the life we brought you up for,” she says.
That’s exactly the point. But I don’t bother making it. “Do you need me for something specific, Mom?”
“I’m so unwell, Madison.” She makes her voice weak and thin. “You better come by the house. In case.”
Never ask “in case of what.” Just don’t. “I wish I could, but I’m in my gross gym clothes, and I stink.”
“Go take a shower and change. I can wait—a little. And put on something nice. Jennifer heard I wasn’t feeling good, and I believe she and Benson might stop by.”
There it is. Jennifer from the country club and Benson, her thirty-year-old son. Benson, who has sat in my section at Gatsby’s and who was so handsy I had to pin his wrist to the table and hiss in his face to stop it before I had him thrown out. No doubt he’ll pretend he has no memory of his behavior. Great. All this tragedy needed was for Wickham to appear.
I would like some of the good Austen characters, please.
Failing that, I’ll act like a bad one too. “I’ll be over soon, Mom.”
“That’s good, honey. Can’t wait to see you.”
I put the car in reverse and get on the road to my parents’ house, gym hair and sweaty workout clothes still damp. When I pull onto the main highway, I cut my air conditioner and roll down the window, letting the heat whip inside and turn my cheeks a shade of tomato. I flick a glance at my side mirror and relax at the hot mess in the reflection.
“Can’t wait to see you either, Mom.” It’s true. It’s thirty minutes to my parents’ place in an elite enclave overlooking Lake Austin. I’ll arrive looking like I got dragged behind my car the whole way. I wish I’d worn mascara this morning so I could smudge it for the perfect bedraggled touch.
I take their neighborhood turnoff and check in with the guard at the gate. I’m on a permanent list to come and go, but I’ve wondered how much I could bribe a guard to delete me from the system. Then I could truthfully pull up to the gate, find out I don’t have a pass, make a U-turn, and call my mom on the way back home to say I couldn’t clear security.
Except she’d get whoever was protecting the rich people of Waterfront Estates fired, but only after hopping into her Rolls-Royce to drive down and give the guard a lecture, which would probably be worse than getting fired.
I have to drive almost another mile past the guardhouse before I get to their driveway. The house I grew up in is stupid big in the same way that this weather is stupid hot. You can’t wrap your brain around it. My mother’s Rolls is parked in the six-car garage of a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house. Our family of four has never needed fifteen thousand square feet to live in. And now it’s down to only my parents since my sister lives near campus. Two people definitely don’t need all this space. But in a neighborhood like this, not needing it but having it is the point.
I pull into the circular driveway and park beside another Mercedes. Jennifer Wallace’s, I’m sure. Marta has one of the huge double front doors open before I reach it.
“Hey, Marta.”
She nods. “Hello. Welcome. Your mother is in the family room.”
I walk into the main entertainment area of the house—not that you could do anything entertaining in it. My mother’s design aesthetic is “don’t touch.” Everything looks expensive but not inviting. The heavy gold drapes framing their lake view cost about four thousand dollars—per window—but the fabric is stiff. The chairs are wood and brocade, carved to look fancy but they only look fussy. The difficulty in dusting them will be the reason Marta finally quits.
I think the vibe is supposed to be Georgian era, but it makes no sense in a mansion on a Texas lake.
My mom sits in a silk-upholstered armchair that looks as if it were stolen from a Bridgerton set, whisked from the home of one of those dowager characters who loathes color. A chenille blanket covers her lap, and she’s wearing a fur vest. Her version of loungewear, I guess. Neither of these things makes sense in the heat, but how else can she communicate she’s sick?
I suppress an eye roll as I walk in. Jennifer Wallace and her spawn are indeed on the sofa—settee?—and Miss Jennifer smiles. “Hey, Madison. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen you.”
My mom’s mouth presses into a thin line as she takes in my sweaty hair and red face. “You didn’t have to rush over.”
“Of course I did. I was worried about you.” We are not a hugging and kissing family, so I skip that. We are generally a “sit on the furniture” family, but I plop down on the floor even as Miss Jennifer makes a soft cooing noise at Benson. It means Look how thoughtful she is, worrying about her mother.
I stretch my legs out and lean back on my hands. “How’s it going, Ben?”
Benson gives me a blank look.
My mom’s expression goes even flatter. “He goes by Benson, Madison Leigh. You know that.”
“Do I?” I cover a yawn. “Sorry about that. Anyone else need to yawn nonstop after a workout?”
“You look fit and healthy,” Miss Jennifer says. “Benson enjoys working out too.”
He might. He’s got a pretty good build, but there’s a softness around his middle that says his drinking outpaces his exercising. Too bad I know from experience that his tipping does not keep up with his drinking. Benson is coming out on the wrong end of all these equations.
I should respond to Miss Jennifer with more polite conversation, but I fake and cover a big yawn again. “Whew, sorry about that.”
I swivel to my mom with a sugary smile that turns into a real one when I catch her eye. Her gaze is giving murder. Only her pageant manners prevent her from chewing me out.
Miss Jennifer is no fool. Reading the room, she clears her throat and says, “We should get going. We’re meeting Robert for lunch. It was good visiting with you, Cynthia. I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. I’ll send over my favorite soup recipe for Marta to make for you. It always helps.”
“Thank you, Jennifer.” My mother’s voice is faint now, and I almost want to applaud the performance. Not because it’s good but because she’s committed. “Why don’t you see the Wallaces out, honey?”
They pause after rising, but I lean farther back and give them a lazy smile. “They don’t want to have to wait for me when they know the way. See y’all later.”
Miss Jennifer’s smile is stiffer this time, but Benson could not care less. “Let’s go, Mom. Dad hates waiting.”
They walk out, and it’s silent between my mom and me until we hear the distant sound of the door closing.
“What is wrong with you?” she snaps, her eyes narrowed.
“I told you, I’m hot and tired and busy today, but I’m here anyway because apparently something is wrong with you. What’s the diagnosis, Mom? Is this the big one?” My tone is dry, not mean, because as much as she gets under my skin, I do love my mother. But I also struggle with the constant manipulation. The woman never met a boundary she couldn’t—wait, no. She’s just never met a boundary because she doesn’t recognize them.
Anyone who didn’t know us well might find my behavior appalling. They would say the same of hers if they paid enough attention, because I learned my snark from the best.
“Your concern is heartwarming. I appreciate the . . .” She stops, an exaggerated look of surprise crossing her face as she glances down at her empty hands. “The nothing. You brought your sick mother nothing.”
Good old Cynthia Armstrong always holds her own. “You made it sound so urgent that I figured bringing myself would be enough, but I can go yank some irises from the landscaping if you’d like.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
Sure. Learned that from the best too. “Do you need a ride to the hospital or anything? If not, I should get back to the rest of my day.” I climb to my feet. Like most people do, she assumes I work three nights a week and spend the rest of my time at the gym or shopping. Like most people, she’s wrong. This detour is keeping me from some commitments.
“You don’t need to be ugly.” Her voice is sharp and strong. I raise an eyebrow, and she gives a delicate cough into her fist before slumping against the chair. “I probably should go to the doctor.”
“Great, you do that.” My parents have concierge medical service. They pay an obscene amount of money for Dr. Nunce to see them whenever my mom has a tickle in her throat. “Text me if it’s bad news.”
I head out of the room, but she calls my name before I clear the doorway.
“You’re coming for Sunday supper.” It’s not a question.
“Sorry, can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Other stuff to do.”
“Like what?” she challenges me.
I like this question because I have a ready-made set of responses when she asks it, but before I can rattle any of them off, my sister, Kaitlyn, appears from the east wing hallway.
She frowns. “You’re leaving? When did you get here?”
Nothing I love more than a double-team. “Fifteen minutes ago. Off to my interview at Johnny’s Roadside Jerky. I get to wear pants there if I get the job.” My mother has it in her head that I don’t wear pants to work. Not because she thinks I wear dresses. She seems to think I make my tips by serving drinks in my “briefs,” as she called them once. I would like to never hear lady panties called “briefs” again, but I could give my mom my entire trust fund when I inherit in a few years, and she still wouldn’t say “panties.”
Not that I serve drinks in my panties, either. I admit that doing an image search for bottle girl uniforms can feel more like stumbling into the wardrobe closet of a music video girl—the kind that would send my mother into a full-blown coma. But Gatsby’s offers us three options for our outfits, and even the skimpiest one still shows a fair amount of class.
“Sorry I missed you,” I tell Kaitlyn, making for the front door. “Gotta go.”
“Madison, stop it.” Kaitlyn’s voice is sharp.
I stop but I don’t take my hand from the knob. Kaitlyn is three years younger than me, but she’s often acted like she’s my third parent. I could ignore her, but she’s relentless. I’ve learned to hear her out and do what I want anyway. Exactly like with my parents.
“Stop what? Leaving?”
“Yes. Stop leaving after ten minutes every time you come over here.” She walks closer, composed as always. She shops in the same departments my mother does at all the high-end stores. Their wardrobes are interchangeable. Today, she’s wearing black pleated trousers and a silky white button-down blouse.
“How about you tell Mom to stop dragging me over here every time I take too long to pick up her voicemails?”
“We all have family responsibilities,” she says. “It’s not too much to ask you to do yours in exchange for all the perks of being an Armstrong.”
Up until now, this visit has only been annoying, but Kaitlyn is pushing my buttons, and she’s chosen the nuclear option. This is the Armstrong Way: forced compliance through manipulation. My mom throws in her imaginary illnesses for style points, but the core move is always Manipulate With Money. They have used it as both carrot and stick my entire life, but I’m nobody’s jackass.
“I don’t take a dime from them. I mean this sincerely, Kaitlyn: back off.” I walk out, not bothering to close the door behind me.
She watches me climb into the car, every line in her body communicating her disappointment. But it’s not even the kind that makes you feel like a crappy big sister and want to turn around and apologize. It’s that judgy kind that makes you want to peel out of the driveway to prove how much you want to get away.
So I do. I don’t bother checking my rearview mirror to see if she’s turned to go back inside with another deeply judgmental look on her face. I already know the answer, and I don’t need to see it again.