"I'm sorry I'm so late. The roads were awful this time."
"Don't apologize. We're just happy you're here. You really shouldn't have brought me flowers," she told me as I knew she would. "But they are absolutely beautiful."
"The beer," my father started while my mom's arms were still around me, "you absolutely should have. And thank you. Looks like there's enough if you want to share some with me too. If you've gotten over your thing."
My thing was a slight allergy that made my face feel all itchy when I tried to drink it. I knew he didn't mean to be so callous about it, that he genuinely just thought it was important to be able to share a beer with the people you care about, so I tried not to be offended.
"Well, I brought wine for Mom and me," I said instead, sending him a small smile.
My father was not who you imagined when you thought of old money. He was just shy of six feet with linebacker shoulders, a wide chest, a bit of a beer belly, a somewhat ruddy complexion with bright green eyes and a full head of salt and pepper hair.
He looked like your everyday man in his jeans and black long sleeve tee and tragic New Balance sneakers.
At least Trip, even being an every-day-Joe, had pretty impressive loafers on with his simple outfit.
In contrast, my mother—who was not from money—looked every bit the woman you might think of as old money. Not the cheaper new money full of lip injections and cheek fillers, but a gracefully aging woman closing in on her sixties. She was tall and lithe with the delicate bone structure I had always envied with bright blue eyes and blonde hair peppered with white.
She'd always possessed what I considered a timeless sense of style with her simple slacks or well-fitting jeans and tucked in long-sleeve button-ups in whites or stripes layered under oversized thick-knit cardigans in soft colors—grays, beige, pinks. She was wearing a white button-up with a golden cardigan today.
She did not share my love of heels and was wearing simple ballet flats in tan.
Never a fan of bold jewelry, she had pearls at her earlobes and a silver heart pendant necklace resting on her chest.
"Have you settled all in?" my mother asked. "Were there enough hangers in your closet?"
"You unpack on vacation?" Trip asked, brows furrowed.
"She's a curious one," my father said, shaking his head. "Well, let's go take some of these beers onto the deck while Katherine and Jett get dinner going."
"I can't help with anything?" Trip asked, looking over at my mom.
"No, no. You and Mitch go ahead and relax," she insisted, waving him off. "Thank you for offering, though." She waited for them to head outside before turning back to me with her usual sweet smile. "I told you he was a fine gentleman, Pudge," she said, and I was incredibly grateful that she hadn't let that old nickname slip in front of Trip.
There was no use explaining to her our less than cordial greeting. She would only find kind things to say about it.
"So, what are we making for dinner?" I asked, casting a glance over toward the porch, seeing my father clink his bottle of beer to Trip's.
Shaking off what I can only call a small bit of jealousy, I listened to my mother ramble off some recipe she'd seen in a magazine. Not Pinterest. My mother was old school. She subscribed to all the home and cooking print magazines known to mankind. She had half a dozen scrapbooks full of the winning recipes she'd found within.
With that, I cracked open our wine, rolled up my sleeves, and helped bring her Bruschetta chicken pasta and potato soup dreams come to life.
"What?" I asked when I found her shooting looks at me as I sipped my wine.
"Could I maybe talk you into making a tray of those amazing brownies of yours?" she asked, already grabbing the various items out of the fridge and pantry that I would need to make said dessert.
"I'd be happy to," I agreed, always glad to make her life a little easier by handling one part of the meal.
"Fantastic. Brownies are Trip's favorite."
I kept the smile on my face while silently wondering if I could get away with slipping some laxatives into his slice.
"Great," I told her, getting to work.
An hour later, dinner was in our hands on the way to the dining room, and the brownies were in the oven.
The dining room was oddly placed on the other side of the house, a bit of a long walk from the kitchen, and I was acutely aware of the click-click-clicking of my heels on the floor the entire way there, swearing I could hear Trip's internal monologue about how obnoxious they were.
Proving I wasn't just paranoid, when we finally moved into the dining room where he and my father were situated, Trip's gaze was on my feet.
"Alrighty," my mom cheered, moving to place the hollowed-out bread bowl of soup in front of my father, leaving me to serve Trip. "Dig in," she added as I avoided all eye-contact as I dropped the bowl down, moving across the table to my spot. "So, how are things going with you guys and work?" my mom asked, and I resisted the urge to groan.
When it comes to touchy subjects between my father and me, his workplace was at the very top, right above my decision to register to vote for a different political party than him, and my adamant refusal to go fishing with him.
"Trip has really settled into his new leadership role. He is taking this company into the future."
Electric cars are not the future, Jett.
"That's so wonderful. We are so lucky to have you on the team, Trip," my mother agreed.
I don't want you to reinvent the wheel, Jett. No one actually cares about their footprint. It's all buzzword crap they know they are supposed to say while on their way to load up their giant SUVs at the gas station.
"I count myself lucky to work at your company," Trip said to my father, but I didn't miss the way his gaze slid to me after. As if to say You're an idiot for not doing so yourself.
"And Jett, how is your work going?" my mother asked, shooting a sweet smile in my direction. She wasn't just making polite conversation; my mother was always the sort who genuinely wanted to know.
"Jett fiddles on social media," my father supplied to Trip.
Fiddles.
I didn't care who you were, it stung a bit when one of your parents reduced your hard work to fiddling.
"I am in charge of marketing of an ethical and green cosmetics company," I corrected. "But it does involve some fiddling on social media," I added, giving my father a smile, not wanting to get into an argument, wanting to toe that very careful line we often did when interacting.
"Ethical meaning, what, employees get gold stars for participation and a crying room for when they're stressed out?" Trip asked, gaze piercing.
"Ethical meaning we don't strap down harmless animals and test products on them," I snapped, getting a glare from my father that told me he didn't appreciate me bringing up that subject.
Another sore spot.
I had once brought up this very topic in front of the CEO at a major—and unethical—makeup brand. I'd gotten a lecture like a ten-year-old after that one. About how some topics aren't to be discussed in mixed company.
"You did ask," I reminded Trip who at least looked a little chastened.
"I did," he agreed, going on eating.
My mother, bless her heart, charged on about fifty different topics over the next hour, keeping things light and airy, nothing controversial. I went ahead and only piped in when I knew for sure it would be safe to. Talking about how the city got during the winter, about what shows were currently running on Broadway that my parents might be interested in.
Trip managed to get a few more barbs in, but left me otherwise unscathed.
My family, good food, and my third glass of wine were making him a lot more tolerable than I expected.
Once or twice, I might have even felt the need to smile at something he'd said to my mother that had her beaming or that made my father laugh.
He seemed wholly capable of being charming and friendly to everyone else he encountered.
If everyone e
lse can get along with him, Jett, did you ever stop to wonder if maybe it is you?
That was what my father had said after breaking up a particularly heated argument over—of all things—people bringing dogs to fireworks that my father was putting on in a public park to celebrate the Fourth of July.
I had taken the words to heart initially, until I remembered that I, too, got along with everyone else I came into contact with.
Trip and I were simply oil and water.
We didn't mix.
"Excuse me a moment," my father said, rushing off to answer his phone.
"No, please," Trip said, pressing a hand to my mother's as she reached for his plate. "Jett and I can get the dishes. You have done enough already. Right, Princess?" he asked, daring me to remind him that I, too, had helped make dinner.
"Right. I will happily do the dishes," I added, reaching to gather my father's along with my own. "Why don't you join my father on the deck?" I suggested to Trip.
"Nope. Got to do my part too."
I didn't even notice I had been grinding my teeth again until Trip fell into step beside me. "Stop."
"Just put them on the counter. I'll get them," I demanded, not mentally prepared to actually have to do dishes side-by-side with him.
He completely ignored me, going over to the sink, running the water.
"What's with all the jabs at your father?" he asked, back to me as I moved the leftovers into a glass storage container.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I didn't, either. After a rocky start, the conversation had been pretty seamless.
"He tries his best to connect with you. And you shut him out."
"You don't know anything about my father and my relationship, Trip." I wanted the words to come out firm, but they had escaped a little sad even to my own ears.
"I know he wanted you to work at his company."
"I did work at his company," I reminded him. "I started in the mailroom when I was sixteen, and worked my way up."
"Then up and quit without notice."
He wasn't wrong.
But he didn't know why.
And I wasn't about to tell him.
"It was a family matter," I told him, watching as he shot me a raised brow for a moment before going back to his dishes.
"Regardless, you didn't have to be a brat and run off to New York instead of facing it up."
"You have a lot of opinions for someone who has no idea what he is talking about," I told him, watching as he shut off the water, turning to face me, mouth about to open.
"You two are the sweetest," my mother said, breezing in. "I hope you left room for dessert, Trip," she added, going over to start making a pot of coffee. "We have brownies."
"I'm sure I can squeeze in a brownie or two. You didn't have to make them for me, though, Kathy," he added, shaking his head.
"I didn't," she told him, coming up behind me, wrapping her arms around me. "Pudge did," she added.
Oh, God.
Yep.
That just happened.
And judging by the way Trip's eyes were dancing, he was enjoying the hell out of it.
"Pudge?" he repeated, not even trying to hide his smile.
"Oh, that is Jett's old nickname. Pudge Muffin. She had this charming little muffin top," she added, pressing a hand to my belly, and drawing Trip's attention to a place that was still not my favorite part of my body.
With that, she moved off to collect the dessert plates.
"Pudge, huh?" Trip asked, lips twitching.
"Call me that again, and I'll kill you," I told him through a beaming smile, not wanting to upset my mother.
"Prefer Princess, huh?"
"I prefer my name, actually."
"Sucks then that you don't get to pick what people call you," he told me, turning to grab a cup of coffee. "Can I get you some coffee, Kathy?" he asked, pointedly not offering me one as he automatically made one for my father who took it black with one sugar just like he apparently did.
"Oh, no. I can't drink coffee after ten in the morning. It will keep me up all night. But thank you."
Trip turned, but didn't move away from the coffee machine, making me have to move in at his side to get my own cup.
It oddly annoyed me that, even in my six-inch heels, he still towered over me. I inherited nearly nothing from my mother. Not her blonde hair or her pale skin or her delicate build, and not her height either.
"Stop staring at me," I demanded, feeling his gaze looking down at the top of my head as I went about making my coffee. Two sugars, a dash of creamer, and a generous pour of sugar-free caramel syrup that my mother never forgot to have stocked for me.
"Get over yourself, Princess. I was watching the monstrosity you are making."
"It's called coffee. Plenty of people put cream and sugar and syrup in their coffee. Especially because my father likes to drink the strongest coffee known to mankind."
"Sorry we didn't think to bring you a cappuccino machine, so you could make some half-caf, salted caramel, extra foam concoction."
"Oh my God. And you feel you have the right to criticize me for supposedly taking jabs at people? Can I just enjoy my coffee?"
"You can try," he agreed, nodding.
"Jett, honey, do you want dessert? Or are you being careful?"
I tried not to grimace, hating that turn of phrase. When I had first buckled down to lose some weight, she always sidestepped the term 'diet' though that was clearly what I was on at the time. Her favorite was always 'being careful' which never failed to make me feel like I was one bite away from being considered careless with my intake.
Not her fault.
It was my issue.
"Careful?" Trip repeated.
"Oh, Jetty tries to watch what she eats," my mom informed him while I prayed she let it drop at that. "I think those kids at school were a little judgmental when she had some extra padding on, right, honey?"
Judgmental was a nice way to put it.
Sure, my peers always understood that there was a sort of twisted hierarchy in school based on how rich our parents were, and that I was near the top behind a tech guru offspring, and the twins belonging to the owner of a giant pharmaceutical company. That meant that they always watched what they said in front of me.
Behind my back, when they thought I couldn't hear, though, that was a different story entirely.
Kids were cruel in general. It was a rule of life. But kids who had been raised to think that they could get away with anything they said simply because their parents were important people, yeah, they were sadistic little jerks.
"They weren't kind, that's for sure," I allowed, pushing those old feelings down again, reminding myself to keep them in the past where they belonged.
"Were you really that much bigger?"
Bigg-er.
Maybe it was a harmless word. Plenty of people would have used the same turn of phrase.
But coming out of Trip's mouth, well, I couldn't help but take offense.
Bigg-er.
Meaning he thought I was big now?
That certainly seemed like the inflection.
"Oh, I don't know. She was maybe four or six sizes bigger," my mother supplied. "But Jett has a wider build."
On that, my eyes closed tight for a long second, looking for a smidgen of confidence to face Trip again whose eyes I could still feel on me.
"Like her father?" he asked her but kept his gaze on me when I finally looked up at him again.
"Yes," I agreed, "like my father."
"Your father was..." my mother started.
"Please," I cut her off, turning, giving her my gaze which I knew had to have been desperate. "Can we change the topic?" I asked before she could spill it all.
"Are you feeling alright, honey?" she asked, brows lowering over concerned eyes. "You look a little flushed. Are you not feeling well? Your eyes are a bit small too."
"I think I have a headache coming on," I admitted, and it wasn't a lie.
> "Oh, sweetie," she said, voice soft, knowing my history of sudden—and crippling—migraines. "Why don't you turn in early? We have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow. Take care of yourself. You had a long day," she added, pressing a kiss to my cheek before taking my father's coffee and brownie, heading out to bring it to him on the deck where he was still talking on his phone.
"Might not get headaches if you weren't always clenching your jaw."
To be fair, his tone, for a chance, wasn't overly condescending. Just observant. Just sharing an opinion.
But I was tired and a little too vulnerable at the moment.
"Where'd you get your medical degree?" I asked, glaring at him.
"Go get some sleep," he said, his own jaw tightening. "Maybe you will be pleasant in the morning. For a change. I won't hold my breath, though."
"Please do. This whole holiday would be a lot more tolerable if you suffocated," I added with a saccharine smile.
"Go to bed, Princess," he demanded, tone dismissive, a little cutting.
"Don't tell me wha—"
"Honey, go!" my mother insisted, waving a hand at me as she came back. "I will play hostess. Get some rest. You were up so early this morning. Go on. Up."
There was no arguing with my mother when she decided you needed to rest.
And, quite frankly, I wanted a break. A couple aspirin. And a good night of rest before I had to face Trip again.
"Dinner was great, Mom," I told her, giving her a one-armed hug.
"Dessert is great too," my mom assured me, even though she hadn't touched a brownie, never having been a huge fan of them. "Right Trip?" she prompted, and I caught him cutting himself another square.
"They're not bad," he allowed. "I'm surprised you bake."
"Oh, Jett is a great baker. She makes an amazing apple pie. You've just got to try it."
"Sure, I'd be willing to taste her pie."
Okay.
It was a nothing comment.
A throwaway, really.
Why, then, did it almost seem, I don't know, sexual?
And why in freaking hell did I feel an odd, completely unexpected, entirely absurd little spark of desire?
Tired.
I was clearly tired.
Maybe even a little delusional.
There Better Be Pie Page 3