Chapter 7
EMILY
Istood on my parents’ front porch, staring at the brass knocker, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
You can do this. It’s just lunch. Two hours, max. You’ve survived worse.
I smoothed down my sundress, checked that my cardigan was sitting right, and rang the doorbell before I could talk myself into leaving.
The door opened almost immediately and Mom stood there in cream linen pants and a silk blouse, her blonde hair styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless.
“Emily. You’re here.”
“Hi, Mom.” I leaned in for the obligatory air kiss, cheek to cheek, careful not to actually make contact. “Thanks for having me.”
“Of course. Come in.” She stepped back, gesturing me inside. “Though I have to say, you look a bit peaked. Are you feeling alright?”
Five seconds. I’d been here five seconds and she’d already found something wrong with me.
“I’m fine. Just tired from work.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes traveled over me, cataloging and assessing. “Well, you’re here now. Your father’s in his office, but he’ll join us for lunch. I’ve made that chicken salad you love.”
I never loved that fucking chicken salad.
I followed her through the house, my feet remembering the path even though I didn’t want them to.
Everything was exactly as it had always been.
Cream walls, art that Mom had chosen because it matched the furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases.
The house smelled like lemon polish and fresh linen and something else I didn’t want to think about. Something cold.
The dining room table was set for three. White plates, silver cutlery, cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles. A pitcher of iced tea sat in the center, condensation beading on the glass.
“Sit, sit.” Mom gestured to my usual seat, the one facing the window. “I’ll just go get your father.”
She disappeared down the hallway and I sank into the chair, my hands twisting together in my lap.
Through the window, I could see the backyard.
The pool that I’d never been allowed to use because chlorine was bad for my skin.
The garden that Mom had hired professionals to maintain because she didn’t want dirt under her nails.
The garden shed. I could barely see it from this angle, but just knowing it was there made my stomach churn.
Mom returned, with Dad trailing behind her like a shadow. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, his hair graying at the temples, his expression pleasant and blank.
“Emily.” He nodded at me. “Good to see you.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He sat down at the head of the table and immediately reached for the iced tea. Mom settled across from me, smoothing her napkin across her lap with precise movements.
“So.” She served herself some chicken salad, then passed the bowl to Dad. “How’s work? Still working as Mia’s assistant?” Her tone managed to convey clearly that she wasn’t impressed with my lowly status.
“Yes, I’m still Mia’s assistant.” As if that would have changed in the past few weeks.
“That must be interesting.”
I gritted my teeth.
“And of course, it’s good to know your limits. Not everyone is made to be a corporate highflyer like Mia.”
I caught the subtext loud and fucking clear. Not everyone is as smart or as driven as Mia. Of course, by everyone, she just meant me.
I ladled some salad onto my plate and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard, but that might have just been my throat closing up.
“Actually, I’m still taking art classes.” The words spilled out before I could stop them. “I’m working on my portfolio. There’s a scholarship I’m applying for.”
Mom’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “I suppose classes are harmless enough, if you’ve got the time.”
Dad made a noncommittal sound and reached for more tea.
“It’s not just classes.” I should have stopped talking. “It’s a full program at Appalachian State. Our company is one of the sponsors and Jack suggested I try for it. If I get the scholarship, I could actually make this work.”
“Make what work?”
“Being an artist. Painting. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Yes, I remember.” Mom’s smile was thin. “You were always very creative. Drawing on everything, making messes with those paints. Do you remember, Anthony? We had to repaint her entire bedroom when she was twelve because she’d covered the walls in bright orange and pink.”
Dad nodded. “I remember.”
“I was experimenting.” My voice was reed thin. “Trying to figure out what I liked.”
“Of course you were.” Mom took a delicate bite of salad. “But darling, you’re twenty-eight now. Don’t you think it’s time to think about something more... practical? Art is a wonderful hobby, but as a career?” She laughed softly. “I don’t think you’re cut out for that.”
“Plenty of people make careers out of art.”
“Plenty of people try.” She reached for her tea. “And most of them struggle. I just don’t want to see you disappointed when it doesn’t work out the way you hope.”
“You don’t know that it won’t work out.”
“I’m just being realistic, Emily. Someone has to be.
” She glanced at Dad, who was studying his plate like it contained the secrets of the universe.
“We sacrificed so much for you growing up. All those pageants, the coaches, the dresses, the travel. Do you have any idea how much we invested in your future?”
There it was. The bill, presented with a cold smile.
“I didn’t ask for any of that.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were a child.
We made those decisions because we wanted the best for you.
” Her voice had that careful, wounded quality that made me feel like I was the one being unreasonable.
“We wanted you to have opportunities, to make something of yourself. And you were so good at it, Emily. You were beautiful up there on that stage. Everyone said so.”
My throat felt tight. “I hated it.”
“You were nervous. That’s natural. But you always rose to the occasion.
” She reached across the table like she might take my hand but stopped short.
“I just wish you’d appreciated it more at the time.
All the work we put in, the doors we opened for you.
And then...” She trailed off, shaking her head.
She didn’t say it. She never said it. But we both knew what came after “and then.”
And then I ruined everything.
“I think what your mother is trying to say,” Dad spoke up for the first time, his voice mild, “is that we want you to be happy. Whatever that looks like.”
That sure as fuck was not what she was trying to say. She’d never given a flying fuck about my happiness.
Mom’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Of course that’s what I’m saying. You just need to be realistic about your choices. Art school at twenty-eight, with no guarantee of employment afterward? That’s not a plan, that’s a fantasy.”
“It’s my dream.”
“And what happens when you’re thirty-five and still living paycheck to paycheck, wondering where it all went wrong?” She took another bite of salad, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m just thinking ahead, sweetheart. Someone has to.”
I set down my fork, my appetite gone. “I should probably get going.”
“Already?” Mom’s eyebrows rose. “But you just got here. We haven’t even had dessert.”
“I have some work to finish for tomorrow.” The lie came easily. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, if you must.” She stood, smoothing down her blouse. “I’ll walk you out.”
Dad remained seated, already reaching for the newspaper folded beside his plate. I followed Mom back through the perfect house to the perfect front door.
“Emily.” She touched my arm as I stepped onto the porch. “I hope you know I only say these things because I love you.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Saw the careful makeup, the styled hair, the practiced expression of concern. Saw the woman who’d built her entire identity around having a beauty queen daughter and never forgave me for taking that away from her.
“I know, Mom.”
“Good.” She smiled, satisfied. “We’ll do this again soon. Maybe next time you can tell me about something more exciting than art classes.”
“Sure.”
I walked to my car on legs that felt disconnected from my body, got in, closed the door, and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel.
I’d barely lasted half an hour.
I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, watching the perfect house disappear in my rearview mirror. My chest felt hollow. My throat ached from all the things I hadn’t said.
We sacrificed so much for you.
The words played on repeat in my head as I drove. All the way home, through every stoplight, past every familiar landmark. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt scraped raw.