Chapter 16
Juliet
There is really horrible traffic because of construction near the waterfront, so I’m already late as I run out of the cab and into the chrome and glass-fronted restaurant.
Le Bernardin, exactly the upscale but sterile restaurant my mother prefers, is busy with the lunchtime crowd.
I breeze past the hostess, headed for the table that Mom always insists on in the restaurant's front right by the plate-glass window.
White linen tablecloths, low classical music, no warmth anywhere to be found.
When I see my mom, she is frowning at her watch.
My cheeks burn; there is no excuse for being late to see Meredith Monroe.
She’s impeccably dressed as always, wearing a navy blazer and the same deep red lipstick that she always wears.
Same dark hair as me, same dark eyes. That’s where the resemblance ends, though.
“Hi Mom,” I say, stepping close and offering her my cheek for a kiss.
“Hello, darling,” she murmurs. She pecks the air by my cheek, making a kissing noise, then looks me up and down. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you. You’re usually more respectful of others’ time.”
There it is. The condescension. I smile and sit down across from her, making my excuses. “Sorry, Mom. There was a lot of construction traffic.”
“Isn’t there always traffic?” She picks up her menu and calls the waiter over. “I’m starving, so get ready to order.”
I don’t even have to pick up the menu. We’ve been coming here to have lunch for years and the menu hasn’t changed.
I order the farmhouse salad, which has blackberries, chevre, and a steamed filet of salmon on top.
My mom orders the roasted duck breast with baby Brussels sprouts, her usual.
She also orders us both a glass of Pipcoul, a white wine varietal that’s so dry it sucks all the moisture right out of my mouth.
It’s certainly no gin and tonic with four limes.
Mom launches into thinly veiled criticism before I can even speak.
“You look exhausted, Juliet,” she says, studying my face like she’s cataloging flaws. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Hmm.” She sips her sparkling water with the precision that makes everything feel like a performance. “You should really talk to your doctor. Have them check your thyroid and iron levels.”
“Really, Mom. I’m fine.”
Years of private schooling and pointed judgment taught my mom how to lift her wine glass with elegance. Her hairstylist styled her hair perfectly. Her blouse could undoubtedly pay my rent several times over.
Why did I say yes to our regular lunch date?
“I saw your name in that society column,” she says casually, as if it doesn’t cost her anything. “We should talk about your engagement.”
She looks pointedly at my ring finger. I took my ring off on the way over here and it’s now hiding in a zippered compartment of my purse. Now I feel like a soldier advancing on his enemy without a chain mail vest.
The diamond is protection, I realize. A way of telling people how they ought to interpret me. A way of saying that I belong to someone, even if it’s just a convenient lie.
I reach for my water and nod like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. Sorry, uh. It happened so fast that you and dad haven’t had time to meet him.”
This tracks. My mom is insanely busy practicing corporate law. Because he’s busy, my dad is rarely present in my life. My parents met Patrick only three times, twice at my graduation and at the dinner they hosted for me afterward.
It’s not so much that they’re uninterested in their dutiful daughter. It’s more that they are always busy with something more important. Business has always come first.
“We’ll look at our schedule and get back to you with a time to meet this fiancé of yours.” That idea makes me vaguely nauseous. Mom pins me with a look. “So? Who is he?”
I gulp. “Hunter Huxley. He plays for the Seattle Havoc.”
“Another hockey player?” She blinks once. “I assume this is a publicity stunt.” Then she smiles, like she’s offering me an out. “Unless this is one of those opposites attract situations. A phase, maybe?”
“It’s not a phase,” I say, because that feels like the right answer. I take a sip of my wine. “He’s a good man. You would approve.”
I’m kidding myself if I think Meredith Monroe would approve of Hunter. He’s my opposite: arrogant, threatening, coarse. My mom would hate him.
Her brow lifts slightly, just enough to make the judgment known.
“You think so?”
No, I don’t. “We’re a power couple.”
“Is that what you want now? To be seen? To be… visible?” Her eyes flick over my blouse, my curly hair, the bright red lipstick I knew would draw her ire. “You used to value subtlety, Juliet.”
It’s not possible for me to become a man.
I can’t somehow be less curvy. Hiding my body in clothes is impossible.
” Pressing my napkin into my lap, I bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“It’s not that I don’t value ambition, Mom.
I just don’t think it has to come in a navy pantsuit. ”
My mom tilts her head, her expression softening.
“I know, sweetheart. It’s hard to be a woman in this world.
You have to fight tooth and nail to get an ounce of respect.
” The waiter arrives with our food, so she’s quiet for a moment.
But as soon as he leaves, she presses on.
“That is why I’m trying to guide you to the path that I’ve forged.
I will not lie and tell you that there are no misogynists in corporate law.
But I’m a name partner, Juliet. I don’t have to put up with anyone’s bullshit. ”
Ducking my head, I nod. “I appreciate that, Mom. I know you are looking out for me. But I’m fine. Doing well.”
She tilts her head and gives a closed-mouth smile, the kind she always uses before making a surgical strike. “Your LSAT scores expire in another year. It’s a shame to let them rot.”
I knew it was coming. The LSAT thing. She always circles back to it as though it’s the only real measurement of my worth. I force myself to take a bite of salad, even though it tastes like ash.
“Going to law school doesn’t interest me,” I say carefully. “I never did. I just didn’t know how to tell you that.”
Her fingers glide along the rim of her wine glass. “You didn’t have to tell me. It was obvious when you followed that boy to Houston instead of taking the interview I arranged for you.” Her tone stays mild, but I hear it. The disdain. The memory she’s never quite let go of.
I bristle. “Patrick was a mistake. We both know that.”
“Hmm,” she says, which means she agrees but won’t give me the satisfaction. “I never liked how he spoke to you. Smug. Entitled. The way he used your ambition against you. No backbone.”
That part surprises me. She’s never said it outright before, not even when I came home sobbing the week I ended things. She’d only handed me tissues and changed the subject.
“I’ve moved on,” I say, even though it feels like I’m saying it for myself as much as for her. “That relationship doesn’t define me.”
She sets down her fork and checks her watch, not because she needs to, but because she wants me to know she has somewhere better to be. “Then stop acting like it does.”
“I know what I’m doing, Mom.”
“Do you? Because this whole thing with dating a second hockey player seems...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Impulsive. Beneath you.”
I want to tell her that Hunter isn’t beneath anyone, that he’s actually more complex than she’d ever bother to discover. Instead, I just nod and smile and let her pay for lunch while she continues to discuss my life like it’s a problem that needs solving.
This lunch just reinforces the fact that I shouldn’t have ever come back from vacation. My Jimmy Choos suck all the joy out of my life as I return to Hunter’s apartment. These things hurt.
Back at the condo, I slump on the couch with my phone in hand, looking through the news for mentions of Hunter’s name. Then, I get a text from a group.
Jessa: Hi! Ivy suggested I make a chat with all the girls so that we can talk about using witchcraft to control the Havoc team. What do you think?
A laugh bubbles out of my chest. I write: Do we think we have that kind of power?
Ivy: Ivy here. Speak for yourself, Juliet. I hexed my last three meetings.
Wren: Hi, it’s Wren. I know I’m not part of the team, but Ivy said I could still be here. Here’s my contribution:
Jessa: We should call ourselves The Coven. Let people know we’re totally serious about using witchcraft to control our fate.
Ivy:
Me: Sounds wicked. I’m in.
Something about that name sticks in my chest. I don’t say anything out loud, but it hits me that this might actually be a real circle of friends.
Not networking contacts or professional acquaintances, but actual friends who text each other memes and make plans just because they want to spend time together.
Jessa: Coven meeting tonight?
I type: Yes. We’ll do it here. Hunter’s place is really fancy. Bring wine and takeout. I’ll provide the couch.
Wren: *can’t freaking wait* gif
Twenty minutes later, another message arrives on my phone. This one’s from my mother. It includes the links to two law school applications.
Mom: Just in case you change your mind.
Something inside me buckles. I stare at the links for a long moment, then walk into my bedroom, close the door, and sink down onto the bare hardwood floor, hugging my knees to my chest.
The tears come hard and fast. I don’t even try to stop them.
Before I can control my emotions, I’m crying over the pressure, the constant judgment, the tightrope I’m always walking between who I am and who everyone else thinks I should be.
I cry because my mother can’t see that I can exist without her supervision.
That I’ve basically been in charge of my life since I was six years old.