Chapter 23
ABI
“I’d like to raise a toast to my daughter, the magnificently talented Abi Andrews,” my dad, Morgan, says as he lifts a glass of scotch.
“We really are so proud of you, dear,” my mom, Kimberly, echoes as she lifts her wine.
Ross and Courtney lift their drinks, and I do the same, feeling a flush of pride at Dad’s praise.
We sip our drinks and set them back on the white tablecloth-covered table at the country club.
Dad called this family meeting tonight to celebrate as soon as his press alert popped up with my name.
“Abi, line one’s for you. It’s your Dad,” Samantha yells across the shop.
She did a great job while Janey and I were gone, really showing her stuff by managing the shop and the arrangements.
Janey might have some competition as my right-hand girl, except that Janey’s a brutal bitch who’ll cut a girl if Samantha gets a big head.
With a grin, I answer, “Thanks! I’ve got it.”
“Hello.”
“Abi, got an alert on you. Thankfully, good news . . . this time,” Dad says. I can hear the creak of his chair as he leans back, relaxing at the office for a moment before he starts the next thing on his never-ending to-do list.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a smile, sitting on a stool at my work table. The parallel strikes me—Dad at his office and me at mine, his desk likely neat and organized while mine is strewn with blooms that I’m arranging into a lovely custom piece for a customer.
I keep messing with the flowers aimlessly as he reads off the dry alert he received.
He set them up on Ross, Courtney, and me when we were kids and added Violet, Carly, and Kaede when they joined the family.
Unfortunately, the alerts have been bad news more often than good, especially with Ross’s younger tabloid-worthy days.
Luckily, those are far behind him and us.
“We’re celebrating tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer. Your mother’s already made reservations at the club for seven o’clock.”
“Uh, okay. Sure, Dad.” I can’t say no to him, even though what I really want to do tonight is go home, curl into a burrito inside a fluffy blanket, and stare at bad reality television until I fall asleep. Alone.
The quiet hum of the fancy country club dining room brings me back to the here and now, as does Dad’s deep voice. “So, pretend I’m an old, out of touch sort and explain to me again how this helps you,” Dad says with a light chuckle.
I take a big breath, knowing that while Dad’s joking and is definitely not that clueless, he’s not particularly social media savvy.
“Claire’s a huge online personality with a lot of pull, like millions-of-followers type of influence.
She posted an album’s worth of wedding photos, tagging vendors from the event like the resort, the wedding planner, the bridal gown designer, and the florist.” I frame my smiling face with my hands because that’d be me.
Dad follows up, “And all of these followers see the tags, and you get money on that how?”
I shake my head, though I’m impressed that he understands that clicks equal dollars.
He’s getting better. “I don’t. She gets the click-through monies for her likes, but I get the exposure.
It’s a free advertisement to a cultivated audience.
That’s huge when we’re talking that many people looking at every detail of Claire’s wedding and wanting to copy it down to the flowers.
I’m already getting more calls, and people are booking their weddings with me sight unseen, just wanting to reserve their dates. ”
“All based on this Claire person’s recommendation?” Dad summarizes.
Mom lays a hand on his arm. “It’s like a personal recommendation for the social media age, honey.”
He lifts his glass again, understanding now. “As long as it’s good for my girl, I’m happy for you.” He takes another sip of scotch as our dinners arrive.
We eat in relative peace as Ross tells us about Carly’s sleep and poop schedule, since Vi’s at home with the baby, and talks about One Life Gym’s business.
It’s nice that he can share that with Dad now.
They spent a long time on opposite sides of the table, but moving to separate sandboxes has done them well.
And Dad is truly proud of Ross’s success.
Courtney jumps in, and she and Dad get to talking about work stuff, as always.
They’re two peas in a pod and their brains are always at least half-focused on work.
I’m mindlessly zoned out as they talk about their latest project and I pick at my chicken. That zero-percent focus—my daydream tendency, as Mom calls it—causes me to miss the incoming bomb until it’s standing right beside me.
“Abi! Oh, my gosh, it’s so great to see you!” a voice exclaims happily.
I look up to see the absolute last person I want to lay eyes on. “Emily.”
“Can you believe it? We don’t see each other for years and then it’s like we can’t stop running into each other.
” Emily laughs, looking around the table at Ross, Courtney, and my parents.
“Emily Jones . . . oh, I mean Emily Daniels. It’s my new last name, so I’m still getting used to it.
My Dougie is a VP at a mutual fund index company. Working late, you know?” she brags.
Slick, Emily. Way to throw in that you just got married without saying it outright, and tack on Doug’s title like we’ll be awed by that. Everyone at this table is a VP, CEO, or sits on a Board of Directors. Titles don’t impress. People do. Wisdom from my dad.
“Congratulations, Emily,” Mom says, ever polite even when some stranger interrupts our family dinner.
Courtney knows exactly who Emily is and mutters under her breath, “Working late hours after the market’s closed?”
Mom jumps in, covering Courtney’s snarkiness with a gracious smile. “May you and your new husband have a lifetime of happiness.”
Emily ignores Mom’s well wishes, her eyes locked in on me. “I guess you don’t have that problem, do you, Abi? Not since you kept your last name.”
Dad chokes on his bite of pasta, coughing into his napkin. “Kept? Your name?” Dad’s right eyebrow has climbed a solid inch up his forehead, and if I know anything about him, his calculating mind is putting together puzzle pieces faster than a Rubik’s cube champion can spin those colored blocks.
Ross and Courtney have my back, knowing exactly what’s going on and what Emily is playing at. Courtney jumps in first, on defense, “Forgive me for forgetting you, Emily, but how far behind Abi were you? In school, I mean.”
Ooh, she’s good. So damn good. I forget how skilled my sister is with her words, cutting like knives as she tells Emily to her face that she was utterly forgettable while making it sound like simple pleasantries.
Emily’s lips purse. “We were in the same class. But that was so long ago.” She forces a smile to her bright red lips, making her look like Pennywise, evil clown incarnate. “Imagine my surprise to see her in Aruba! And for both of us to be there on our honeymoons!”
Her voice has gotten loud, enough so that conversation at the tables surrounding us has all but stopped as people look our way. She’s a good strategist.
Even Mom loses any semblance of caring about her public face and screeches, “Honeymoon? Abi, what is she talking about?”
Thanks, Mom! If everyone wasn’t already looking, that would’ve gotten their attention for sure. And Emily is cunning enough to know she’s struck a nerve with a direct hit.
She feigns horror, her eyes wide and her hands covering her mouth, but she makes sure to drop them and enunciate so everyone hears her loud and clear.
“Well, yeah. Abi’s husband, Lorenzo. She said they were on their honeymoon in Aruba last week too.
Of course, I saw her working there one day and everyone saw the mention of her little flower shop, SweetPea Boutique, on Claire Johnson’s ’gram this morning, and I just thought it was the sweetest thing that Abi could piggyback her honeymoon on a work trip.
Double dipping and all. Must’ve been cost effective to have Claire pay for your honeymoon, huh, Abi?
” She lifts a shoulder at me, almost like she’s giving me a friendly nudge, but she’s a solid foot away and talking louder and louder, dropping names left and right to demolish me with every word.
The room is no longer quiet. A hum of whispers surrounds us and disgusted glares are being thrown at me from every angle.
Except from one table behind Emily, where a group of women sit .
. . women I know from school. They were Emily’s friends then and apparently are her tag-alongs still, because they’re smirking with victory at taking The Abi Andrews down so publicly.
Vaguely, I wonder what Emily told them about our week and the childish competition we’d resorted to.
I’m sure it was nothing flattering to me.
My tongue is thick in my mouth. For all my brilliance, I can’t find a word of explanation that can somehow make this okay. But knowing I have to try, I sputter out, “No, that’s not . . . Emily.” I take a sip of my water, trying in vain to find the ability to speak.
Emily takes advantage of the opening I’ve left, smirking as she fires another bomb, “Oh, no, did your family not know about you and Lorenzo? I can understand. A bit awkward to keep it in the family that way with his being Violet’s cousin.
Unless . . .” Her eyes narrow in glee, and I know that whatever she says next is her true purpose, the real reason she came over here.
“The whole thing was fake . . . like your brother’s wedding and your sister’s engagement.” She tsks and adds, “You Andrewses just can’t stop faking, can you?”
The crowd openly gasps in shock at the accusation. It should be ridiculous, but it’s a bit too plausible considering Ross and Courtney really did fake their relationships, so everyone quickly assumes I’ve done the same thing. That I did doesn’t make it any easier to refute.