34. Wentworth
THIRTY-FOUR
Wentworth
I STAYED AT THE CAPE HOUSE JUST LONG ENOUGH TO fulfill my duties as groomsman while making small talk with everyone, laughing and joking like I was having the time of my life. To his credit, Conner didn’t say a word about what I told him yesterday and if Henley was aware, she didn’t let on. I have a feeling our little secret is safe, at least for now.
Not sure I could take another two-hour car ride with her without completely losing my shit, I made sure Kait and her dog have a ride home before I left without saying goodbye.
As soon as I got home, I went straight to my studio and started drawing because that’s the only way I know how to deal with the bullshit floating around in my head.
The only reason you married me was to save me from Brock and my father. Because it was the right thing to do. I was saved. There was no reason to stay.
We were never going to work. I just figured it out before you did.
She’s wrong.
She’s wrong about all of it, but instead of trying to tell her that, I just let it go because things are fucked up enough as it is. Fighting about why our marriage failed directly before having to play pretend in front of our friends would’ve made a full day of smiling and flirting with each other impossible. Meryl Streep couldn’t have pulled that shit off.
Finally dropping my pencil at about 3AM, I sit back in my chair and rub the grit out of my eyes. Hopeful that I’m finally too tired to think, I stand up and kick my boots off before throwing myself at the mattress on the floor because it’s where I sleep most nights. Stretched out on top of it, I close my eyes and don’t open them again until my cell phone buzzes on the floor beside me, several hours later. Reaching down, I pick it up to see a text from my brother.
Damien: Did you talk to Kaity?
I talked to Kait about plenty but not about her dad. I’d already decided to wait until after dinner tonight because I don’t care if he’s dying or not—Kait’s father has fucked with her enough and the longer I put it off, the better.
Tapping out a quick reply, I hit send.
Me: not yet.
Damien: Maybe I didn’t convey the seriousness of the situation. Tom is dying, Went.
Me: And maybe I didn’t convey the fact that I don’t really give a shit. If I had my way, he’d never see her again.
I have to tell her. I know I have to.
But that doesn’t mean I want to.
Me: I’ll talk to her tonight.
Dropping my phone on the bed beside me without waiting for a reply, I push myself out of bed and hit the shower.
I’M ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES OUT OF MY SHOWER and waiting for room service when I hear the elevator down the hall let out a soft ding.
“Down here,” I call out without bothering to look up from the drawing I’m working on. “Just leave it in the living room.” When I hear the crisp, staccato click of high heels across my hard tile floors, I feel the back of my neck go tight.
Shit.
Dropping my pencil, I close my art pad. Looking up just as my mother appears in the doorway, I sigh. “You’re not my breakfast.”
“I should hope not,” she tells me, her face twitching under its blanket of Botox. “It’s nearly two o’clock in the afternoon.” Smoothing an imaginary crease out of the skirt of her designer dress, she gives me another face twitch while she tries to wrinkle her nose in distaste. “What are you doing in here?”
“Working,” I tell her while I stand. She knows exactly what I’m doing. She just doesn’t consider it work because it doesn’t make me the kind of money she considers substantial enough to live on.
I’ll never understand why you insist on wasting your time and talent on such a tasteless medium.
Never mind that I clear six-figures a year as a tattoo artist—it isn’t enough zeros for my mother.
Walking toward her, I start to herd her out of my studio. “What are you doing here, Astrid?”
“What do you mean what am I doing here ?” She looks at me like I must’ve suffered some sort of head injury. “I’m—” Spotting the mattress on the floor behind me, she does her best to look alarmed. “Do you sleep in here?”
“Sometimes.” It’s a lie, I sleep in here all the time. Pushing her into the hallway as gently as I can, I close the door firmly behind me. “ What are you doing here ?”
“I’m here for the Halston-Day wedding, of course,” she sniffs at me. “It’s going to be the biggest event of the season. There’s no way I’d miss it.”
“Of course.” Giving her a bland smile, I start to move down the hall toward the living room and into a space I’m more comfortable having her in. “But what are you doing here, Astrid. In my house .”
“You’re my son, Wentworth.” The click of her Chanel pumps intensifies as she hurries behind me, trying to keep up. “What sort of mother would I be if I didn’t at least drop in to say hello and see how you’re doing?”
The sort of mother you’ve always been.
Instead of saying it out loud, I lead her into the living room. Sitting down in one of its black leather club chairs, I look up at her with a sigh. “What are you doing here, Mother ?” I ask a final time, my tone making it obvious that my patience is wearing thin. “I know you want something—so just tell me what it is.” The last time she dropped by to show me her motherly concern, it was to ask me to increase her monthly maintenance allowance because seven-hundred-fifty thousand dollars a month wasn’t nearly enough for her to live on.
“Okay.” Sitting down with an exasperated sigh, she lifts her oversized Birkin bag and sets it on the table between us. “Being here for the Halston-Day wedding, on the heels of your sister’s disastrously poor judgment of late?—”
“Delilah has always had poor judgment but if you’re talking about her decision to marry Gray Bright, I don’t think that one qualifies.” I’ll be the first to admit that when they first started seeing each other, I wasn’t a fan but the fact that he literally took a bullet for my baby sister changed my mind.
“He’s a bouncer in a bar, Wentworth,” she says with a dismissive flip of her hand.
“No— I’m a bouncer in a bar, Mother.” Sitting back in my seat, I shake my head. “Gray is a bouncer in a nightclub —there’s a difference.” Gray is more than that. He’s the chief security officer of his brother’s multi-billion-dollar company.
Instead of reminding her, I let her seethe.
“Please don’t remind me,” my mother says, her mouth flattening out as much as her lip fillers will allow. “It’s bad enough that you’ve decided to do this in your spare time—” She flips her hand at my tattooed arm. “Luckily, you’re a Hawthorne, whether you like it or not which means people are willing to overlook your… eccentricities .” Opening her bag, she reaches inside and pulls out a short stack of pictures. “Here,” she says, offering them to me. “Pick one.”
Confused and admittedly curious, I take the stack of photographs. The top one is a headshot of a generically pretty blonde. Flipping it over, I snort when I see that it’s printed with her stats like she’s an outfielder for the Mets.
Name: Cordilia Maitland-Hobbs
Age: 23
Height: 5’9
Weight: 115 pounds
Family’s net worth: 450,000,000
Flipping to the next one, there’s another blonde, this one almost creepily similar to the last. Shuffling through the stack, I note that they’re all of young women. All blonde and look like they could be related. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
“I already told you,” she says with another exasperated sigh. “Pick one.”
Tossing the stack of photos onto the table next to her bag, I look at her like she’s lost her mind. “Pick one for what ?” This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation but she hasn’t ambushed me with her collection of debutante collector’s cards before.
Giving me another one of her put upon sighs, Astrid rolls her eyes. “Well, we’ll start with a date to the Halston-Day affair but eventually?—”
“If you say marriage , I swear to god…” Sitting back in my seat, I take a rough swipe at my face. “No, Astrid. The answer is no .”
Unwilling to accept my answer, my mother shakes her head. “You’re nearly thirty years old, Wentworth,” she reminds me while she gathers up her stack of candidates. “It’s time to stop playing make believe and to start thinking about the future of this family.”
She doesn’t mean family.
She means the future of Hawthorne International.
Because when it comes to my mother, it always circles back to money. Nothing matters more. Nothing is more important. Not even the happiness of her own children.
“I’m already seeing someone,” I tell her, lying through my teeth in an effort to get rid of her. “As a matter of fact, I’m meeting her for dinner tonight?—”
Astrid looks at me like I just threatened her with a gun. “It’s not that dreadful Italian girl with all the tattoos and that ring in her lip, is it?”
“No—but Tess is Henley’s maid of honor so she’ll be at the wedding. Make sure you say hello.” Standing, I make it obvious our mother/son time is over. “Like I said—I have a date to get ready for.”
Ever the optimist, Astrid gathers her purse but leaves the stack of photographs behind. Standing, she shoulders her bag with a huff. “Well, do I at least know who she is?”
Thinking of Kait and knowing that she wouldn’t fair any better in my mother’s eyes than Tess, I shake my head. “I seriously doubt it.”