14
“How’d it go with the flowers today?” Mom asks Oliver at the dinner table.
It’s just us tonight. Mom, the Nouns and their respective partners, the Adjectives, and Sam.
“Good.” Oliver tilts his head proudly. “You’re going to love them.”
“I want no color in there,” she tells him sternly.
Oliver pauses. “You might not love them.”
“Oliver.” She sighs. “I don’t want my husband’s casket to look like a gay pride float.”
“Wow!” I say loudly before Oliver has to respond. My mother throws me a warning look.
Oliver shakes his head a tiny bit. “It’s just some baby blue and a lot of green. It’s—I can change it.”
My mom watches Oliver, tongue pressed into the inside of her cheek. “Show me a sample tomorrow, okay?”
Oliver nods, then looks down at his plate. He’s just shoveling the food around with his fork now.
“Sam,” my mom says, looking at him. “How’s Oliver doing with his sobriety?”
Maryanne glances up, interested.
“Mom.” I frown.
“Great,” Sam says quickly. “Really well. I’m really proud of him.”
“Oh,” my mother says, and then she smiles. “How wonderful. Not as wonderful as if he’d not become an alcoholic in the first place, but wonderful considering—”
“Fuck me.” I drop my head into my hands, exasperated.
There’s a clang of cutlery, and even though I can’t see my mother’s face, I know it’s horrified.
“I beg your pardon!” She blinks.
“Give him a break!” I shake my head at her, incredulous.
Maryanne’s eyes are lit up with the prospect of an unfolding conflict.
My mother points a finger at me. “We don’t use such profanity under this roof.”
“It’s a word, Mom.” I roll my eyes.
She gives me a pointed look. “It’s a sin, sweetheart.”
Jason and Savannah shift uncomfortably in their seats. Sam, however, just watches.
He’s been just watching me all night, actually. He wasn’t seated next to me at dinner—we had assigned seating. Mom and Maryanne, they love assigned seating because they love controlling dynamics. But joke’s on them, because not sitting next to him means I get to stare at him, and that might be better.
“Of all the sins that have taken place in your house, I promise you, me saying ‘fuck’ is like, absolutely the least of your concerns.”
She arcs up, pushing her hair behind both ears. Power move. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s only ever been one child of mine who’s sinned under my roof.” Her eyebrows twitch in condemnation.
“Okay.” I straighten up. “Quick show of hands if you haven’t had sex in this house?”
Sam puts his hand up without a second thought, but everyone else lags on their response time.
Maryanne and Jason are the first to raise their hands next.
My brothers raise their hands next. Then Savannah.
“Liars.” I point to both my brothers. Oliver gnaws on his thumb and Tennyson scratches the back of his neck. I look at Savannah and flash her an apologetic glance. “I don’t want to drag you into this, because I like you, but you’re lying too.” I look at Maryanne, then over to Jason.
Jason swallows nervously, but Maryanne is cool as a fucking cucumber. He’s had sex here and she hasn’t. I feel my chin tuck a bit—I’m genuinely surprised.
“You’ve had sex here before.” I point at Jason and Maryanne snaps her head in his direction—so does my mother for that matter—both of them are surprised to hear that, but only really Maryanne should be.
“What?” He blinks, shaking his head quickly, but for the splittest of seconds, that shake of the head was preceded by a sliver of a nod that no one else would notice. “No, I haven’t.” He swallows.
“When?” I ask.
“He said he hasn’t,” Maryanne says loudly.
“Have you cheated on Maryanne?” I ask.
“Georgia,” Tennyson says, frowning at me sternly.
“No!” This time Jason’s head pulls back. He’s affronted. Truth. Interesting.
I nod as I piece it together now.
“So in high school, then?” I offer.
His mouth does an involuntary twitch. Truth. “No.” He glances at Maryanne, nervously. And fair play to him, I’d be nervous with Maryanne right now too.
“With who?” I ask, but he says nothing, which obviously leaves me no choice. I lean forward, my chin in my hand so I can watch his face closer as I rapid-fire throw names at him.
“Amber?”
Nothing.
“Ashley?”
Nothing.
“Sophie?”
Nothing.
“Tinsley?”
Jason’s face twitches.
“Ah.” I snap my fingers and point at him, feeling a victorious little smile appear on my face because I love the truth and I especially love it when I find it, and then I realize—“Gross! You guys swapped?”
“Shut. Up,” my sister growls, and then she slams her hands down on the table. “Shut up! No one gives a shit about your stupid little freak show act. You think you’re clever, but you’re not. You don’t have any skill; you’re like a card reader at a carnival, what you do means nothing, and you’re not even good at it.” She glares. “Because you’re wrong. I’ve never had sex here.”
I didn’t say she had, by the way—it felt like that was worth clarifying somewhere, but I decide to let it slide just so I can say this: “Not for lack of trying though, right?”
I arch my brows, glaring across the table at her.
Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
It flashes across Maryanne’s face. Deep hurt. I’ve struck gold.
“You bitch,” she spits, shaking her head and scoffing a laugh. “You fuck my boyfriend, you tear my entire life apart, and then you—”
“You’re on wafer-thin ice.” I cut her off and point at her. “Wafer-thin.”
Mom sits back in her chair, looking somewhere in the middle of intrigued and annoyed.
“If you’ve got something to say, Georgia, go on and say it,” my mother tells me, eyebrows arched.
“Yeah, Georgia,” my sister dares me. “Say it.”
And I can’t. I can’t say it. I’ve thought about saying it 0,000 times, and every way I play it out, it doesn’t undo it, so what’s the point? All it’ll do is raise a bunch of questions I’ve already waded through with a therapist, and I don’t need to do it all over again just to take Maryanne down a peg. I won’t say it, and she knows I won’t say it, so I turn to my mother and say this instead:
“Your eldest daughter has an undiagnosed narcissistic personality disorder with sociopathic tendencies.”
Maryanne laughs hollowly. “Fuck you.”
My mother lays her hand on Maryanne’s, gives her a look to gently quiet her—the look speaks volumes—and it says, “I’ve got this, leave it with me.” I’ve never received such a look from my mother.
“And what, pray tell”—she glances at Maryanne and gives her a tender look, then pats her arm to placate her—“does my youngest daughter have?”
I push back from the table. “PTSD.”