Chapter 51 Willow
fifty-one
Willow
“Mother, a little more gravy?” Lane says, taking Gail’s plate and loading it with food. She’s been playing the part of the doting stepdaughter to a T, and one of the side effects is that Mom is literally and figuratively sticking by my side.
“No carbs, Delaney, no carbs. Carbs are a woman’s worst enemy,” Gail declares for the third time.
“I’ll have just the gravy,” Mom states, handing her plate across the table. “The bird is too dry for me. Pour it on that piece of bread, will you, sweetheart?”
Noah smiles at me over the length of the table. We’re each at one end, with Gail, Griff and Mom on Noah’s right, Lane then Beck and Angela on my right, which frames me with Aunt Angela and Mom as my private security guards.
Gail sniffs nervously, “That’s quite a jump in stations for you, Willow, isn’t it?”
This again?
My stomach clenches so hard I’m about to throw up. This whole evening has been the most bizarre and stressful and even comical at times but this? And in front of Mom? How dare she?
Gaze fixed on her, I hold her stare. “I’m sorry—what do you mean?”
“Although,” Gail continues, “I suppose you’re just continuing the family tradition, right?”
Don’t look at Mom. Don’t look at Noah. You brought this mess here.
Squeaky wheel. This is your battle.
Droplet of grease.
“What tradition?” Beck asks in the deadly silence.
I don’t know if he’s not reading the room, or if he, like me, wants to push Gail.
Have her say it out loud. “Mother?” he insists sarcastically.
“Care to elaborate?” He takes a long draw straight from his beer bottle then sits back in his chair.
I half expect him to burp loudly, but he spares us.
Noah clears his throat, takes his glasses off.
Not his battle to fight. “Working to pay for your expenses,” I say before Noah tries to rescue me. “It can be jarring when you’re not used to it.”
“So you admit it?” she says, one thin eyebrow raised.
She has the gall to look at Mom, who sits up straight and looks at me with a small smile that nearly undoes me.
I’ve never been so ashamed of myself. Not of Mom. Not of my childhood. But of myself, for being upset at Mom, for resenting those years with her, for sometimes wanting her gone from my life, for hoping she’d forget me in Emerald Creek while she was living her shitty life god knows where.
For not being able to find it in myself to forgive her for being… who she is. A woman with her struggles, her weaknesses, her lack of support system, trying to cope with whatever shit put her in the situation she was in.
Why does this woman think she can attack her? “Who the fuck are you to speak to my mother this way?” Rage has me clasping my cutlery in iron fists.
My mother’s hand finds mine. She taps it softly, forcing me to look at her.
She has a soft smile on her face. “She’s just scared of the future.
Doesn’t think she can handle it on her own.
Or maybe she thinks she’s past her prime, and she won’t catch a man.
The things she says about you? They’re just what she believes about herself.
” Turning to Gail, she continues, “Twelve years in the business, I could teach you a trick or two, woman to woman, if that’s what you think you need.
Men are idiots, you know—no offense,” she says to the men at the table “they think women over thirty are old, but did you know that your gag reflex diminishes with age and practice?”
“Mooom!” I cry out while Beck laughs out loud, Griff tilts his head with interest, Lane hides half her face in her napkin, and I don’t know what Noah thinks because I am absolutely not looking at my husband in this moment.
“She’s right,” Ms. Angela confirms, which has Beck nearly toppling over his chair and Griff snorting happily.
“And that whole thing about being less tight—absolute nonsense. You have wonderful years ahead of you, dear,” she says to Gail.
“If you just focus on giving instead of taking, you’ll rebound faster than I can say ‘Hold my beer.’ And I hope the boys at the table won’t forget these little tidbits of information. ”
This time everyone is laughing except Gail and me. “Aunt Angela, we should start a topic in ECHoes,” Mom says in between hiccups. “Ms. Angela’s wisdom for men.”
“Oh—I’ll ask Cheryl. She has lots to say on the topic,” Ms. Angela answers.
The scene is so surreal I finally find the strength to look at Noah. “Looking forward to our twenty-year anniversary, darling,” he says out loud.
“Ewww!” “Gross!” “Get a room!” His siblings shout.
“Welp, I think that’s our cue to go,” Ms. Angela says, nodding toward Mom.
“But… dessert?” I ask stupidly.
Gail pushes her chair back, nose pinched as she glances coldly at Noah before leaving the room.
We clear the table in no time, send Ms. Angela and Mom home with pear and almond cake, and let the next part of the plan unfold.