13. Valentina #3
I sat next to my mother at functions and watched her work rooms with a warmth so total and genuine-seeming that no one ever saw the manipulation happening beneath.
I grew up watching my father negotiate with men, being charming while taking everything from them.
I know what a performance looks like.
I know the drama of it: the specific calibration of sincerity, the prepared lines that sound spontaneous, the moments of discomfort that are slightly too perfectly placed.
The martyred single mother who only wants what’s best for her son.
The woman who tried to do the right thing and was left with no options.
The concerned party who simply had to come in person because she had no other choice.
But what’s pissing me off is I can’t find the lie.
I have gone over everything she’s said and I cannot find it, which is how I know she’s very good at this.
The best lies are the ones with real bones.
I just don’t know what the fucking purpose is yet.
I smile at her.
“Of course,” I say warmly. “Of course you were worried.”
I look at Finn on the sofa, absorbed in his tablet, foot tucked under him.
“Actually,” I say, “that brings me to something else I’ve been wondering about. And I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“Of course,” Claire says, politely but her body language is screaming, I definitely do mind.
“We’ve been talking a lot about what you want,” I say, running my finger along the armrest of the chair.
“And what Cillian wants. But—” I glance at Finn, who is still enraptured with his tablet.
Poor thing. It’ll rot his brain. “I haven’t heard a single word about whether Finn actually wants to be here. ”
Claire opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand.
“Because that’s the important part, isn’t it?
” I continue, just as sweet, just as warm.
“I mean—bless his heart, he’s eight years old, right?
You flew him to New York, brought him to a stranger’s apartment, and I’m just wondering”—I pause, like the thought is only just occurring to me—“did anyone think to ask him whether this is something he actually wanted? Or was that decision made for him too?”
The silence that follows is magnificent.
I’m amazing.
Claire’s expression shifts from wariness to indignation in rapid succession. She straightens. “Finn absolutely wants this.”
“Does he?” I look at Finn again, this time letting the look linger long enough that Claire looks at him too.
She scoots closer to him, unconsciously trying to protect him from me.
Stupid woman. “He seems like a very smart kid,” I say admiringly.
“Very perceptive. I’d imagine he picks up on things pretty quickly. ”
Claire’s head snaps up at me. I smile.
“I just think,” I continue, “that with all of the focus on what the adults want out of this situation—which is completely understandable, these things are complicated—it would be a shame if Finn felt like he was being moved around like a piece on a board rather than treated like a person with his own feelings about a very big, very overwhelming experience.” I smile at her. “Don’t you?”
The color that had started coming back into Claire’s face is gone again. She’s staring at me with a myriad of emotions crossing it.
“Finn knows why we’re here,” she insists defensively. “We talked about it. He wanted to come.”
“Oh, I’m sure you talked about it,” I say, nodding.
“Of course you did. You seem like a very devoted mother.” I pause.
“I just wonder sometimes what an eight-year-old boy really understands about a trip like this. What he thinks he’s walking into.
Whether the conversation you had and the reality of sitting in a stranger’s living room are the same thing, for him.
” I glance at Finn again. “He hasn’t looked up once, has he? Not since the tablet came out.”
Claire looks at her son again.
Finn is still on his tablet.
He’s curled into the couch cushions, his tongue jutted slightly out as he focuses on his game or his video, his shoulders hunched up to snuggle more into the soft interior.
Claire studies him for a long moment.
The practiced composure she’s been wearing slips just a fraction, but enough.
Something unguarded flickers across her face: her eyes soften, the tightness around her mouth loosens, and for the first time since she sat down, the expression isn’t measured or rehearsed.
It’s instinctive, almost involuntary.
Whatever else she’s been pretending, this much is undeniable. When she looks at her son, the feeling there is real.
“He’s fine,” she insists, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in her tone.
“Of course he is,” I say, warmly. “He looks like a wonderful kid. Really, he does.” I pick up my mug. “I just think he deserves someone in his corner who’s thinking about what he needs. Not what everyone else needs from this situation.” I take a sip, watching her over the rim. “But that’s just me.”
Claire looks at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time.
She came here today with a plan and she’s currently holding the pieces of it together and trying to figure out where it went sideways.