Nineteen
“Daniel? Here? Tonight?”
The words taste like sandpaper on my tongue, dry and gritty and impossible to swallow.
My mother stops stirring the pot—ironic, given her talent for doing exactly that—to glance over her shoulder at me.
The rich scent of simmering garlic and rosemary swirls around us, mixing with the slow-cooked beef braising in red wine, a familiar warmth filling the kitchen. It should be comforting. It’s not.
“Yes,”
she says, like she’s just informed me the weather looks nice today. “And Lauren will be with him, of course.”
Lauren, too?
When I told Nathan that someone would bring up my ex, I didn’t expect him to physically be here.
Gripping the knife, I blow out a breath and count backward from ten. The cutting board in front of me is covered in half-chopped herbs, the earthy scent of fresh parsley and thyme clinging to my fingers. I set the knife down before I test just how sharp it really is.
Grace? Yes. Absolutely. I can’t wait to get to know my new sister-in-law.
But Lauren? The woman wearing a ring that was originally meant for me?
I rub my temples, the familiar weight of an impending headache pressing at my skull. “Mom, why?”
She turns fully now, brushing her hands on her apron.
Oh Christ, it’s got pineapples on it.
Are they upside down?
I snap back to look at her. My mother, Patricia Blake, is a woman who believes in two things: appearances matter, and you can solve any problem with enough food and unsolicited advice. She’s in her late fifties, still effortlessly elegant, her brown hair swept up in a neat bun with only the faintest streaks of gray peeking through.
Her sharp blue eyes—ones that I inherited—assess me like I’m being dramatic. “Because he’s practically family,”
she says. “And with him being Jeremy’s best man—”
“Jeremy can find another best man.”
She purses her lips. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You and Daniel dated for years. I thought it would be best if you got any awkwardness out of the way now.”
A humorless laugh escapes under my breath.
Of course she thinks this is best for me. She knows we broke up. She knows he got engaged six months later. What she doesn’t know is that he was planning the engagement to someone else for months before we broke up.
My brother knows. He and Daniel didn’t speak for a while, and Daniel had a broken nose and a black eye to show for it.
They made up, because apparently, Daniel knew he fucked up, but they were grown-ups. They’ve been friends since they were kids, and friendships don’t just disappear overnight.
“He shouldn’t have done what he did to you,”
Jeremy had said, sounding like it physically pained him to admit it. “But it’s complicated.”
Maybe it was. Maybe they were.
So, Jeremy stayed friends with him.
I left.
Nobody had to deal with it.
Nobody but me.
I should focus on cooking. Focus on anything other than the suffocating tension squeezing at my ribs.
She gestures to the pile of herbs I’ve barely touched. “Are you going to finish chopping or—?”
I stare at her, waiting.
There it is.
That knowing look.
“It won’t be that bad,”
she says, like she has to believe it. “Besides, you’ve moved on. Nathan will be with you. The man I’ve heard absolutely nothing about.”
Right. My fake boyfriend.
I make a noncommittal noise, picking up the knife again.
“I’m sure things will be just as awkward for Daniel,”
she adds, like it’s some great comfort.
I doubt it. The man wouldn’t know awkwardness if it slapped him in the face.
I bet Jeremy is loving this.
My brother and Daniel have had this weird anything you can do, I can do better dynamic for years.
It’s why they were best friends growing up, constantly pushing each other, turning everything into a competition—who could run faster, who could hold their breath longer, who could score higher on their SATs.
When I started dating Daniel, that rivalry bled into everything.
Jeremy went to law school.
So did Daniel.
Daniel bought a house.
Jeremy bought a bigger one.
Daniel got engaged.
Jeremy proposed three months later. It’s no coincidence. He must be thriving knowing his wedding is coming first. Meanwhile, I get to sit at the same table as my ex and his fiancée, pretending like I’m fine.
Wonderful.
I pull out my phone, my fingers typing before I can second-guess myself.
Me: Hey, so. Tiny development. Daniel is coming to dinner tonight with his fiancée.
Nathan: Does your family hate you?
I snort.
Me: I'm pretty sure they do.
I put the phone down, ignoring the knot of tension that has formed in my stomach since she told me Daniel will be here with his fiancée, and try to think about something else.
“Mom?”
I ask, because now it’s niggling at me. “Do you know what swinging is?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course I do. Your father and I do it every Wednesday night with the Humphreys.”
My mouth pops open so fast I swear I hear my jaw unhinge.
“Our neighbors? Those Humphreys?”
I croak, my voice barely functioning.
My mother nods, completely unfazed. “Mmhmm. We only started last year, but they’ve been at it for ages. The old couple they did it with weren’t into it as much anymore. The Humphreys have taught us a lot. You know things between your father and I…”
Please stop talking.
“Well, when you’ve been married for so long. You need something to spice things up.”
I lurch forward, bracing myself against the counter because I’m genuinely about to be sick. I can’t breathe. I need air. Or alcohol. Or an emergency brain wipe.
Before I can get a word out, she casually calls, “Tim?”
Oh my God.
No.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
My voice comes out strangled.
She glances at me. “I’m showing you what we learned.”
I stumble back, shaking my head so fast my brain practically rattles. “What? No. It’s fine. I don’t need to know.”
Too late.
My father comes bouncing into the kitchen, a screwdriver in one hand, because he always finds something to fix when we have company. He looks far too happy for a man who has just unknowingly traumatized his daughter.
“What’s up?”
he asks, setting his tool down on the counter.
“Let’s show Sienna what we learned Wednesday night,”
my mother announces, already grinning.
My soul leaves my body.
I am seconds away from hurling myself into the boiling pot of beef braising in red wine just to escape this moment when my father suddenly roars—way too loudly—into the Alexa.
“Alexa, play the best of swing jazz!”
Is this their idea of a porn soundtrack?
Music bursts from the speakers.
And then… they start dancing.
Actual swinging.
Like twirling and dipping and laughing while they spin around the kitchen.
It takes me a solid five seconds to process.
I sway slightly, gripping the counter before sweet, sweet relief crashes into me so hard I almost cry.
Swinging.
As in swing.
As in the genre.
I cover my face with both hands, exhaling every single piece of my soul in a single breath.
I am never recovering from this.