Chapter Thirteen #2
My hair is bouncy and shiny. My eyeliner is miraculously even. I smile—no lipstick on my teeth. Turning around, I take a gander at my backside. My butt is the only part of me you’d call curvy, and this dress amplifies the effect. “Not bad,” I tell my reflection.
I’m slipping on my denim jacket when Beatrix appears at my feet, and I crouch down to give her a little attention. She meows, and somehow it sounds like a scolding.
“What? It’s not a date.”
A distinctly judgy feline look.
“We’re just friends.”
She tilts her head.
“It’s dinner. I have to eat, don’t I?” I tickle her beneath her chin. “At the end of the night, I’ll be home to snuggle with you.”
But I stop halfway down the stairs and take off my jacket so Everett will get the full effect of the dress. At the bottom, I turn into the living room and smile. “Hey.”
The smile fades fast. My mother is sitting on the couch next to Everett, her legs crossed toward his, one hand holding a wineglass, the other on his arm.
He’s holding a framed photo in his hands, and he stands up when he sees me. “Hey. You look nice.”
“Thanks.” He looks nice, too. The jeans he has on hug the thick muscles of his thighs, and the white dress shirt he wears shows off his tan.
But I can’t shape the thought into a compliment because I’m too distracted by my mother, who has on black pants and a low-cut, silky black blouse.
Her hair still looks like she just stepped out of the salon.
Her gold kitten heels peek out from beneath her hems, and her signature Cherries in the Snow lipstick is freshly applied.
On the coffee table in front of them is a cheese board she evidently put together while I was upstairs. A bottle of white wine has been opened and three glasses poured.
“Darling, come join us for a glass of Riesling.” My mother gestures to the chair across from the couch.
Join them? Like this is their date and I’m a third wheel?
My legs feel shaky as I cross the room and perch tentatively on the edge of the chair. I meet Everett’s eyes. “Do we have time?”
“Our reservation is at eight,” he says. He’s observing me carefully, trying to read my body language. He knows something is off.
“I was just showing Everett this gorgeous photo of you from the last time you competed at the Youth America Grand Prix.” She gestures toward the picture in the frame. “Stunning, isn’t she? Just look at that extension.”
I cringe. The photo in Everett’s hands is of me performing the Kitri Variation from Don Quixote.
I’m balanced on the toe of my right pointe shoe, my left leg extended in a développé à la seconde, my right hand holding a fan.
I’m wearing a fussy white-and-gold platter tutu, that stupid tiara, and a ruby-lipped smile that masks the pain in my right ankle.
“Mom, stop.” I cross to them, take the frame out of Everett’s hands, and set it back on the mantel.
“Sneakers, Mila? Really?” My mother clucks her tongue. “Did you forget to pack nice shoes?”
I look at my feet as my fingers curl into my palms. “I like sneakers. They’re comfortable.”
“My daughter has a thing about comfort,” my mother remarks to Everett with a laugh. “She clearly prefers it to style.”
“I like being comfortable too,” says Everett, smiling at me.
I could kiss him.
My mom tugs his sleeve so he’ll sit down again. “Stay for a minute. Mila’s always running off somewhere. She’s been here two days already, and I’ve hardly seen her.”
He meets my eyes, asking a silent question. Duty gets the better of me, so I shrug and take my seat on the chair again. He lowers himself to the couch.
My mom smiles, happy she got her way. “How’s your mom doing, Everett? I haven’t seen Patricia in ages.”
“She’s fine. She’s got fibromyalgia, which gives her some pain, but she’s busy at the farm.” He sits stiffly, his back rigid, his hands on his knees.
“The poor dear. Don’t get older, you two. Everything starts to go wrong with your body, even when you’ve spent your entire life taking good care of it.” She sips her wine. “Did Mila tell you I’m having surgery?”
“Yes. It’s nice that she was able to come home and help out.”
“Oh, believe me, I had to practically drag her here,” my mother says. “She’s always so busy with her work or her friends or her activities. She just informed me she took a gourmet cooking class recently.”
Everett looks at me. “You cook too?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my mother gets there first.
“She never used to. Now she claims she’s able to make some kind of fancy caramelized onion, tomato, and goat cheese tart—doesn’t that sound delicious? But I haven’t seen any evidence of it yet.”
“Because you told me you don’t like goat cheese,” I remind her.
“I never said that, darling.” She sets her wineglass on the table and pops a dried fig into her mouth. “You must have misheard. I’d love to try your gourmet cooking. I think it’s wonderful you’re learning a useful skill.”
Unlike doodling flowers.
I take another swallow of Riesling.
“Speaking of useful skills, Everett, you look like you’re good with your hands.” She pats his forearm. “Mila and I could use some help with a few things around here. Do you think you might be able to install a grab bar on a shower wall?”
My jaw drops. Now she wants the grab bar installed?
“Sure,” Everett replies. “I did that for my mom, too.”
“What a good son.”
My head feels like someone is pummeling it with a hammer.
“That would probably take me about an hour, so I’ll have to come back another time. Mila and I have plans tonight.”
“On that note, let’s get going.” I set my wine down and stand up. “I’m really hungry.”
“Mila!” my mother chides, as if I’ve said something to be ashamed of.
Everett rises too. “Why don’t I come back tomorrow and get that grab bar in? Would that be okay?”
“Of course, dear.”
He takes a step toward me. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.” I make a beeline for the front door, grabbing my purse from a hook at the bottom of the stairs. “Good night, Mom.”
Everett follows me out, pulling the door shut behind him. I walk on numb legs down the front walk toward his truck, which is parked at the curb. He opens the passenger door for me before going around to the driver’s side.
After sliding behind the wheel, he looks over at me. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I stare out the windshield, my hands clenched in tight balls on my thighs. The truck’s cab is dusky and warm. I breathe in and hold it—the air smells like leather and coffee and whatever cologne Everett is wearing. It’s woodsy and masculine, and it loosens some of the tension in my muscles.
Everett rubs the back of his neck. “The vibe in there was weird.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. She’s kind of intense.”
“That’s one word for her.”
“I thought you said she didn’t want the grab bar.”
“She didn’t. She doesn’t. I think she just wants the attention from you.” I exhale. “But she is going to need it, and I’d be grateful for your help.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. “You know what sucks? Today was kind of a nice day with her. We had lunch together, we ran some errands, she even asked to see some of my drawings. When I showed her, she said she liked them.”
I shake my head, still in disbelief. “And then she told me my father was an artist.”
“You never knew that?”
“No! She never says anything about him! Not that I blame her—he abandoned her when she was pregnant with me. Rationally, I know he was not a good guy. I don’t want to find him or anything. But it feels like she withheld a monumental piece of information from me.”
He covers my nearest balled-up fist with his hand. The tightness in my chest loosens just a little, and I consciously relax my fingers under his palm.
“I don’t even know his name. I’ve never felt any kind of connection to him—but one existed. And she knew about it.” The injustice of it feels like sandpaper on a wound. “It makes me so mad.”
Everett’s thumb moves slowly over my knuckles. “I would be mad too.”
When I look over at him, his dark eyes hold no judgment. “Are you sorry you asked me to dinner?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Laughter cuts through my murky mood. “That’s right. You didn’t. But you also didn’t ask to hear about my drama. Why do I keep embarrassing myself in front of you? It’s like a curse.”
“I don’t know. But as long as you’re not going to set my truck on fire, I’m cool with it.”
“Make another joke like that, and I might.”
He grins and switches the engine on. “Come on, Freckles. Let’s go eat.”