Chapter 10
TEN
NAOMI
W e file into the dining room like a well-rehearsed play. Mom claims her throne at one end, Dad his distant post at the other. Anne and Landon settle like paired chess pieces on one side, while Mykel and Madison mirror them opposite, leaving me to slide into my usual spot next to what should have been an empty chair.
The first course arrives. Soup.
I can do soup.
“Mrs. Smith,” Madison says. “I just love these place settings.”
“Anne,” David cuts in, “I heard your firm is doing very good. Impressive growth.”
“Yes.” Anne doesn’t look up from her food. “Thank you.”
“Though perhaps with a bit more aggressive?—”
“The firm’s doing perfectly, actually,” Landon says.
“Naomi,” Madison says from across the table, “that dress is gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
“Brandon picked it out,” Lydia answers before I can. “Didn’t he do well? Such excellent taste.”
“Actually,” I lock eyes with her, “I picked it out myself.”
Brandon’s eyebrows lift slightly. A silent question.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Mykel grins. “Remember that phase when you only wore black?”
“Better than your cargo pants era,” I say.
“Hey, those were practical!”
“For what? Smuggling snacks into the cinema?”
My mother slams her fork and knife on the table. “Kids. We have guests. Please.”
A warm touch brushes my knee beneath the table. I jerk, my spoon clattering against the plate. Brandon.
“Everything okay, dear?” Mom asks.
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Just… hot.”
“Then blow on it first,” My mother states the obvious. “Mykel, tell everyone about your new position.”
My brother launches into some story about his latest project, but I’m barely listening, focusing on Brandon’s thumb tracing circles on my thigh. I’m caught between wanting to break his fingers and wanting to…
I lean over to Brandon, lowering my voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” he says.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“Didn’t have to.” His hand moves higher. “You synced our calendars, remember? Part of the whole ‘happy couple’ act.”
Back then it seemed like a good idea, genius even, not having to personally invite him to everything. Now…
I stop his hand from wandering. “You’re such a?—”
“Brandon,” Mom says, “how’s the Milton Group doing? I heard there were some exciting developments.”
“Nothing too exciting,” Brandon says. “Just the usual corporate politics.”
“Don’t be modest.” Dad’s voice carries across the table. “I heard about that deal with Harrison Industries. Quite impressive for someone your age.”
“That was mostly Elijah’s work.”
“Ah.” Dad’s disappointment is palpable. “And your restaurant venture?”
Brandon’s hand tightens on my knee. “Almost sold.”
Sold? The restaurant, his dream, his escape, the one thing that was truly his. Is he really selling it?
The word scrapes past my lips before I can stop it. “When?”
Brandon doesn’t look at me. “Deal’s not final yet.”
“Smart move,” Dad says. “Best to cut your losses and focus on what you’re good at. The restaurant business is risky. Better to stick with what you know.”
This is what Brandon knows. Better than anyone. This is what he loves. Or loved?
“The Milton Group certainly suits you better,” Mom says. “Such a prestigious position.”
When did that happen? Why didn’t he tell me? We might be fake, but I thought…
I don’t know what I thought.
That our arrangement somehow entitled me to his secrets? Can I really blame him when I’ve been the one dodging his calls, letting his texts pile up like unpaid debts?
The main course arrives, some kind of roasted meat I push around my plate, because my stomach is a writhing knot of hunger and revulsion.
Brandon shifts closer. “You okay?”
“Fine.” My fingers tighten around my fork.
“Naomi, darling,” my mother’s voice drips honey, “you’ve barely touched your food.”
“I’m eating.”
“Are you?” Brandon asks.
I kick his shin under the table. Hard.
“Ow, fu—” He covers with a cough. “Food is really good.”
Mykel’s eyes dart between us. “You two seem… weird.”
“Everything’s fine.” I stab a piece of meat, the fork scraping against the plate. “We’re fine.”
“Really?” Mykel asks. “Because you look ready to murder him.”
I am. “Don’t be dramatic.” I force the meat into my mouth, chewing mechanically. Counting. One, two, three… “How could I ever want to murder my loving boyfriend.”
Madison giggles, high and false. “They are cute together.”
Brandon presses his thigh against mine. “Maybe because she knows I have a surprise for her later.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“Oh, how lovely!” Mom claps her hands together. “Brandon, you’re just full of them tonight. Is it something you want to share with?—”
“That’s not necessary,” I say.
“It’s very necessary.” Brandon’s voice drops low, meant just for me. “Trust me, cupcake, you’ll want to hear this.”
Trust him? After he kept the restaurant sale secret?
“Speaking of surprises,” Madison says, “Mykel and I have an announcement?—”
“Not now, babe,” Mykel mutters.
“But you said?—”
“Later.”
My mother’s fork clatters against her plate. “An announcement? What kind of announcement?”
“It’s nothing,” Mykel says quickly. Too quickly.
Mom’s eyes light up like Christmas came early. “Are you…?”
“No!” Mykel and Madison say in unison.
“Though that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, David?” Mom turns to Dad, who’s suddenly very interested in his wine glass.
“We’re moving in together,” Madison blurts out.
The table falls silent. Even the scraping of cutlery stops.
“Oh.” Mom’s smile freezes. “How… modern.”
I risk a glance at Brandon, finding him watching me with that intense look that makes my skin prickle.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.” His lips quirk. “Just wondering when we’re moving in together.”
I kick him again. Harder. He grunts in response, shooting me a look.
“Who wants wine?” My mother asks.
Me. I want all the wine, but sadly… “I’m driving.”
“I’m driving, too,” Brandon’s eyes never leave me.
Just like he won’t leave me in general, and, somehow, that feels good.
The dinner drags on, with my mother telling us about her new plans for the house and Madison being very enthusiastic while the rest of us, at least me, pray for this evening to end. I mostly push my food around with a few alibi bites here and there.
“Before dessert,” my father says suddenly, standing up. “I have something…”
He disappears into the hallway, leaving us to marinate in awkward silence. Brandon’s hand finds my knee again, but I’m too distracted to swat it away. Something feels off.
When Dad returns, he’s carrying a canvas wrapped in brown paper. My breath catches. Is this? Mom’s fingers clench the stem of her glass.
“Anne.” Dad’s voice is softer than I’ve heard it in years. “Your mother painted this the summer before… Well.” He clears his throat. “I think it’s time you had it.”
Anne’s face goes pale as Dad sets the painting in front of her. Her fingers hover over the paper, trembling slightly.
“Oh, how… sweet,” Mom says. “Clara’s little hobby. Though I suppose even amateurs can produce something worth keeping.”
The paper tears under Anne’s fingers. “What did you just say?”
“Lydia,” Dad warns, but Mom’s already leaning forward, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass.
“I merely meant that while Clara’s attempts at art were… endearing, they weren’t exactly gallery-worthy, but I’m sure you’ll find some use for it.”
“Unlike your attempts at mothering?” If hell had a thermostat, Anne’s voice would set it to zero.
Mom’s glass hits the table hard. “I have been nothing but?—”
“Nothing.” Anne stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “Exactly. You’ve been nothing to me except a constant reminder that you’re not her.”
“Anne,” Dad starts.
“No.” Anne grabs the painting, holding it against her chest like a shield. “I won’t sit here and listen to her diminish everything Mom was. Not when—Everything she—” She looks around, at Mykel, me, and then my mother. “I’m done.”
Landon rises beside her.
“Anne.” Dad reaches for her, but Landon captures his arm.
“She said she’s done.”
Dad’s voice drops to that dangerous octave that used to make us all freeze as kids. “Get your hands off me.”
Landon doesn’t budge, and a predatory look forms in his eyes.
“Landon, love.” Anne’s fingers grip his forearm, gentle but firm.
The tension crackles between them like static before Landon releases Dad’s arm, and the room collectively exhales.
“Please.” Dad’s voice softens. “At least stay for dessert. Thomas prepared those cinnamon rolls.”
My stomach twists, the bile threatening to rise. Cinnamon.
I have to get out of here.
“Don’t manipulate me into staying. Not after—” Anne glances at my mother, who’s suddenly very interested in adjusting her napkin. “Not after letting her speak about Mom that way.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
“You never do.” Anne backs away from the table. “Happy birthday, Father.”
Landon’s hand finds the small of her back, ushering her out after throwing one look that could kill at our father, leaving the rest of us frozen in our seats like some twisted family portrait.
Seconds later, Thomas wheels in the cart with the cinnamon rolls, their scent filling the room with memories I’d rather forget. Brandon’s hand squeezes my knee under the table, and this time I welcome it.
“Well!” My mother disperses the bitter echo of Anne’s departure with practiced efficiency, her hands coming together in a sharp clap that makes me flinch. “Who wants dessert?”
Dessert? The weight of what I know, what I’ve kept hidden, sits heavy in my stomach, worse than any food. If I eat anything else, I will…
I stand. “I?—”
“Sit.” Mom’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense.” She nods to Thomas, who places a roll on my plate. The icing melts, dripping down the sides. “Just one bite. For your father’s birthday.”
“Mrs. Smith—” Brandon starts.
“It’s Lydia, dear.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Naomi, don’t be difficult. One bite won’t kill you.”
But it might.
“She shouldn’t eat so much.” Brandon cuts in, “We have dinner reservations later. Business meeting with?—”
“At this hour?” Mom’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arch. “Surely you can have one small piece. Isn’t that right, David?”
“Do what your mother says,” Dad says. “This dinner is already awful enough.”
Mykel and Madison glance around, trapped in the middle of a drama we all don’t want to be a part of.
My mother spears her roll. “Take. A. Bite.”
Fine. She wants a show? I’ll give her one.
I grab the roll, tearing off a piece larger than I intended. Shit. The dough squishes between my fingers, warm and sticky. I won’t let her win. Without breaking eye contact, I shove it in my mouth.
The cinnamon burns, coating my tongue like sandpaper, and sugar crystals crunch between my teeth, each grain a separate torment. The sweetness turns metallic in my mouth, mixing with the bitter taste of panic rising from my stomach.
I want to gag, to spit it out, but I force myself to chew, counting each movement of my jaw.
One. Two. Three.
I swallow, the dough forming a lump in my throat. “Happy?”
“Was that so hard?” Mom turns to Madison. “Now, tell me more about this moving situation…”
The bathroom calls to me, its promise of relief just down the hall. But Mom’s watching.
Three hundred seconds.
I reach for my water glass, trying to wash away the taste of cinnamon, but it’s pointless.
The room spins. Two hundred and forty seconds left. My stomach churns, the cinnamon roll joining the meat, sitting like lead. I grip my water glass so hard my knuckles turn white.
I can’t wait that long.
“Excuse me.” I push back from the table. “Restroom.”
“Naomi.” Mom’s voice cuts through the fog. “We’re not finished.”
“I am.”
“This is your father’s birthday dinner.”
I bolt before anyone can say another word. The hallway stretches before me like an endless tunnel.
Almost there. Almost?—
The bathroom door locks behind me with a satisfying click. I turn on the faucet, letting the water drown out everything else, and kneel on the cold tile floor, shoving two fingers down my throat.
One, two, thr?—
Everything comes up.
My throat burns, eyes watering, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than carrying the weight of everything inside.
I grip the toilet bowl harder, willing my hands to stop shaking. One more time. Just to make sure it’s all gone.
The cinnamon still lingers, mixing with the acrid taste in my mouth. Mom knew what she was doing. She always knows. Just like—I heave again, but nothing comes up except bile.
A knock at the door. “Cupcake?”