Backlash

by Geneva Lee

  I don’t know why we have to go through any of it. Why do we have to pretend like everything is normal? Why does it matter if it’s three sharp—the time my mother set—or half an hour later? Why act like we have anything to be thankful for this year at all?

  Plastering a smile on my face, I enter the dining room to discover everyone else already in their seats. Most years I’m sandwiched between guests, left to make small talk on topics I know little about and care even less for. This year, I stop when I see there’s no place for me.

  My father clears his throat and nods toward the end of the table opposite him. “You’re the lady of the house now.”

  My gaze lands on my mother’s place, the spot where she would sit and charm everyone, redirecting arguments before they could occur, seamlessly keeping track of when courses needed to appear, and making certain no one at the table wanted for anything.

  I don’t move. I’m not up for the task.

  “Adair,” my father says with a smile, but there’s a sharp edge to it.

  “Maybe Ginny should,” I stammer.

  “Nonsense. Ginny sits across from Malcolm, not me,” he says.

  “Maybe they should sit at the ends of the table,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  A dangerous silence falls over the table. Eyes flicker between the two of us as our dining companions try to stay clear of the approaching storm.

  “They are not the heads of this house.” His words are terrifyingly quiet. I strain to hear them, even though the implication is loud enough.

  “Neither am I! We can just leave the spot to remember Mom,” I begin to suggest.

  “Sit down.” He slams the table with his fist.

  I don’t know where it comes from or why. It would be easier to just agree. It’s what my mother would do. She’d sit and quickly distract everyone from the unpleasantness with a witty story. I’ve never been any good at putting on airs. Instead, my hands ball to fists and I shake my head.

  “What?” My father asks like he doesn’t understand.

  “No,” I say in a quiet, but firm voice.

  “You will—”

  “No,” I shout, losing control, “I won’t sit here, fill her spot and pretend nothing’s wrong. I won’t act like I’m okay that she’s gone, not when we all know it should have been you!”

  “Go to your room,” he roars.

  “I thought I was a head of the house,” I spit back. “I guess that means I can do what I please.”

  I dash out the side door, down to the kitchens. I don’t know why I’m running. He can’t follow me. Not in his wheelchair. I just know I need to get out—away from him, away from Valmont, away from the secrets slowly tearing me apart inside.

  Just like my mother should have done while she had the chance.

  17

  Sterling

  “Turkey time!” Francie calls in a sing-song voice, so full of joy I can feel it warm me up.

  I miss how excited she gets over the little things. Food is a passion we share, mostly because we were always too broke to order out or eat at the new, hip places in Manhattan or Queens. Instead, we found the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants and food carts and learned how to make the things we loved. I’d been secretly glad when she announced she was cooking Thanksgiving and to ‘not test her patience on the matter.’

  We earned more than a few side glances from the guests of the Eaton when Francie and I crammed into the elevators with grocery bags full of supplies. She’d taken one look at the hotel’s idea of catered dinner, laughed, and began looking for a local grocer. It had taken a little work, but we finally found one with fresh turkeys and most of the items she considered essential to the holiday. To her dismay, there wasn’t a fresh cranberry to be found in the whole store, so we settled for some of the canned stuff.

  “It smells okay,” I tell her, leaning onto the counter.

  She swats at my head with the spatula she’s using to scoop fresh whipped cream out of a bowl, sending dots of it onto my shirt. Neither of us can stand the stuff in the plastic vats, and since we agree it’s a prerequisite for pie, we had to make our own.

  “So, do we get to eat now? Before I die?” I ask, swiping some of the whipped cream with my finger.

  “Don’t test me. You didn’t even help me cook.”

  “Not fair.” I grab the empty bowl and carry it to the sink to wash up. “You kicked me out, remember? Something about being alone with a Viking?”

  She banished me earlier in the day, about the time she decided she needed some one-on-one time with the granite counter tops and sleek, stainless-steel Viking oven. I pretended to be grossed out when she splayed across it like she’d developed genuine feelings, but inside, I felt like I’d finally given her something. Maybe it was only for a few days—but sometimes an experience is worth more than any gift you can unwrap.

  “A woman has needs,” she says, patting one of the knobs on the range affectionately.

  I gag again, harder.

  “It didn’t look like you thought those needs were gross when your girlfriend’s shirt was on inside out.”

  “Harsh,” I say, “but fair.”

  “Get out of my way,” she orders me, “before that turkey burns.”

  “She complains that I don’t help, then she kicks me out again. I worry about you, Francie.”

  She’s sliding the bird out of the oven when someone knocks on the door.

  “Oh lord, I hope that roommate of yours didn’t order us that sad dinner.”

  I laugh and head to the door, wondering if I’m about to turn away two-hundred dollars worth of food. But it’s not room service on the other side.

  “Lucky.” I swing the door open wider and grab her hand. She’s white as a sheet of paper and startles a little when I touch her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says in a rush. “I should have called, but…”

  “That better not be green beans almondine and cranberry apple pie,” Francie calls. “Send it back to the kitchen. They can eat that. Cranberry apple pie on Thanksgiving!”

  “I should go.” Adair swivels away, but I don’t let go.

  “We have enough food for an army. Come in.”

  “What are you doing over here?” Francie comes to the door, wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh! Adair. Sterling didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I’m intruding,” she says, trying to tug her hand free. Color returns to her cheeks in two red blooms.

  “No, come in! Someone should appreciate my effort,” Francie says, swatting her inside. “This one watched me cook all day.”

  “The lies you tell.” I grin at Adair, hoping she realizes that we’re just joking. She manages to return a small smile as I pull her along, closing the door behind me.

  “I just couldn’t deal with my dad,” she confesses in a whisper.

  “We‘re glad you came.” I wrap an arm around her waist and tilt her chin so I can kiss her.

  “Save that for after dinner,” Francie calls.

  “We’ll be too stuffed then,” I say.

  “Exactly!”

  A giggle bursts from Adair, and she untangles herself from me with a shy smile.

  “It smells really good,” Adair says. “Can I help with anything?”

  Francie and I share a look. “Do you cook?”

  “Um, not really,” she admits.

  “Why don’t you grab another place setting for yourself? I stacked all the extras over there.” Francie points to the end of the kitchen counter. “They set the damn table like it was Buckingham Palace.”

  “The Eatons can go a little overboard,” Adair says, carrying over a place setting and arranging it precisely.

  “I want to hear all about them,” Francie says, brandishing a carving knife a little too dramatically. “I need to know who my Sterling is hanging around. Do you know them well?”

  “You could say that.”

  My Sterling? She’s never called me that before. Never claimed me like I was hers. I shrug
it off, trying not to get attached to the idea, and help Adair finish adjusting the table.

  We eat at one end only, so we can actually talk. Although we do agree that we should have a very formal dinner and pretend we’re aristocrats, before our time in the suite is up. Adair probably attends dinners like that regularly, but she’s the most enthusiastic proponent of the plan.

  If I had any qualms about what Francie thinks of Adair, they’re all gone by the end of dinner, mostly because they discover a common ground: trying to embarrass me. I play the part, pretending to be horrified at every revelation, from the time I got stuck sneaking out a window when I first moved in with Francie—a story she mortifyingly refers to as the Winnie-the-Pooh incident—to Adair’s impression of me riding a horse for the first time, which sends Francie into a fit of howling laughter.

  “City boy on a horse. Next time take pictures.”

  “I promise,” Adair laughs.

  After pie, Francie opens a bottle of wine.

  “I’m going to get acquainted with that bathtub,” she tells us.

  “Already cheating on the Viking?” I ask, earning a quizzical look from Adair.

  “I’m too old to settle down,” she says with a wink. “Behave yourselves.”

  I settle onto the couch and pat the spot next to me. Adair slides off her shoes and sits, curling her legs up and molding against me. My arm drops around her and lands on her pooling skirt.

  “There is a lot of dress here,” I say.

  “Thanksgiving is a formal affair at Windfall,” she says with a groan. “I didn’t really think when I left. I just took off.”

  I pause. We’ve studiously avoided talk of what sent her running to my door tonight. I’m not sure if that’s because Francie was around. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Honestly? No.” She peeks up at me, dark lashes framing her eyes. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah.” I kiss her forehead, earning a soft sigh. “Is it selfish that part of me is glad, because it means you’re here now?”

  “Terribly selfish.” She grins. “But that means I’m selfish, too, because I’d much rather be here with you.”

  “How would you feel about getting out of that dress?” I ask her.

  “Sterling Ford, you were told to behave.” Even as she teases me, her warm hand slides across my thigh.

  It takes some mental—and physical—adjustment to remember what I was saying. “I have something you could put on.”

  I untangle myself from her and go into the bedroom I’m using. Digging in my duffel bag, I find a clean, ribbed undershirt and boxers and toss them on the bed. She watches from the doorway.

  “Here. Get comfy. You can sleep here tonight,” I say.

  Her eyes flicker past me, and I know what she’s seeing. Not the clothes I’ve found for her, but the king-sized bed.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say quickly.

  “No,” she blurts out, “I can sleep on the couch.”

  Part of me wants to pick her up and carry her to the bed and undress her myself, putting to rest our feeble attempts at propriety.

  “Why don’t we both just sleep in here?” she suggests. “The bed is huge. We can still behave.”

  “I am shocked.” I pretend to be offended. “Do you think I’m that kind of guy?”

  Adair crosses to the bed and grabs the clothes, sticking out her tongue. She darts into the bathroom to change. I stare at the closed door between us. A vivid fantasy takes hold of me.

  I walk over and open the door to find her stripped to her bra and panties. She doesn’t even fake surprise. Adair’s in my arms in an instant. A second later, she’s pinned to the wall, my lips on her neck as she rocks against me. I reach behind my head, grab my collar and pull my shirt over my head. Her skin is soft and inviting against mine. She runs her hands across my chest.

  “Sterling,” she whispers.

  “Sterling!”

  I blink and see her standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”

  She smirks, and I wonder if she can actually read my mind. Now that I’ve come back to earth, I discover the reality is better than the fantasy. She’s in my clothes, my boxers hanging loosely off her hips and my ribbed tank clinging to her curves. Her nipples poke against the thin fabric. She moves across the room, showing no self-awareness of how incredibly sexy she looks.

  “Are you going to sleep in that?” she asks.

  “Um…” What are words? “No.” I hook my collar and tug my shirt off. I toss it on the floor to discover Adair is now the one staring. My pants follow, turning her cheeks pink.

  “Let’s watch something,” she says quickly, grabbing the remote.

  We climb into bed, both hesitating about how close to each other we should be. Adair scoots next to me, until our bodies are brushing, and flips on the television. She scans through the channels with a focus usually reserved for brain surgery. Finally, she lands on an old film adaptation of Wuthering Heights.

  “I’ve never read this,” she admits. “I can’t get through it.”

  “Heathcliff is a dick,” I say.

  Adair laughs while giving me a pointed look.

  “What?” I roll over and pin her to the bed.

  “I was just thinking it takes one to know one.” Her eyes gleam, and despite being the butt of her joke, I find myself moving to kiss her. It’s long and slow, but our bodies soon get the idea. Adair’s legs fall open, allowing me to center myself between them. A soft hand runs along my abs, gliding around to my back and dipping below the elastic of my boxers. I break the kiss, moving lower and planting kisses down her neck. I skim over her collarbone and slowly move to the valley between her breasts. She moans softly, melting against the bed. I take this as a sign to continue, so I move to the peak of her nipple, closing my mouth over the thin fabric and sucking gently.

  “You’re going to pass that Econ exam, right?” she pants.

  I release my suction and kiss the swollen pebble. “Why do you ask, Lucky?”

  “Because this is a very big bed,” she whispers, “and it would be a shame to…”

  “Yeah?” I coax. “It would be a shame…?” I need to hear her say it—ask for it. It’s her first time. I can’t rush her, even if the blood rushing to my groin has other thoughts.

  “Sterling, I want to—”

  She’s cut off by the door to the bedroom flying open. I roll off her, grabbing the sheets to cover her, and yell, “Close the fucking door!”

  But it’s not Francie there. A man in an expensive suit marches into the room, fury radiating from him. He’s tall with graying hair, and he looks down at us past a long, hooked nose. “Who the fuck are you?” he says with a snarl.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I repeat.

  “I am Nicholas Randolph, the manager of the Eaton,” he says in a clipped tone as he takes a walkie-talkie from his pocket and flips it on. “Have security meet me at Suite 600.”

  Fuck!

  “There’s been a mistake,” I say in a rush. “We’re friends of the Eaton family.”

  “I wasn’t informed the family had placed guests in the suite. We’ll have to sort this out with the police.”

  “What? No? I’m Cyrus Eaton’s roommate. He gave me the keys. You can check.” This is spinning out of control so quickly, I feel dizzy. “Don’t call the police.”

  “It is hotel policy, and furthermore, it is not up to Mr. Cyrus to give the keys to strangers. It has to be cleared with his father. We’ll need to contact him, but in the meantime…”

  Cyrus and his family are off at some private resort on an equally private island. It could take hours to reach them. Long enough, I’m certain, for me to get thrown in jail.

  “What is going on?” Francie appears in a bathrobe, tightening the belt.

  I stare helplessly as security guards arrive behind her and grab her arm. That snaps me out of it. I jump up. “Let go of her. This is a misunderstanding.”

  “You
are trespassing,” Randolph says, as though this settles the matter.

  A guard grabs me, but before they can drag me off, Adair shouts, “Wait!”

  She pushes out of bed, holding her head up with more dignity than her clothing choice should allow. “We can move to my family’s suite if there’s a problem.”

  Randolph pauses mid-order and turns a careful eye on her. “And you are?”

  “Adair MacLaine,” she says. “My family’s suite is down the hall. We would have stayed there, but since there’s only one bedroom and my boyfriend’s family was in town, Cyrus wanted us to have more space.” She picks up the phone on the nightstand. “You won’t be able to reach the Eatons. They always spend Thanksgiving in Saint John. We can call my father. He’s home entertaining his future in-laws. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Of course, I could text Cyrus as well. He can have his father call. I’m certain they aren’t busy at this time of night.”

  “My apologies, Miss MacLaine. Of course, there must be a mix-up. We wouldn’t dream of asking you to change suites, but we’re happy to open your family suite if you’d like the additional space.” Randolph backtracks so quickly he’s practically out of the room. He snaps his fingers at the guards and hisses, “Let the guests go.”

  Francie glares at the guard who grabbed her. “Shame on you.”

  “I am so terribly sorry for the mistake,” Randolph says, but he’s not speaking to me. He’s talking to Adair.

  “I’m not the one you should apologize too,” she says.

  “Yes, of course. Mr….” It looks like it physically pains him to look at me.

  Is it that obvious that I don’t fit in here?

  “Ford,” Adair prompts smugly.

  “Our apologies, Mr. Ford. May we have breakfast sent up tomorrow morning to show how sorry we are for our mistake?” he asks.

  “No need,” I say through gritted teeth, daring a glance at Francie. “I think after your mistake, we’ll go elsewhere for the rest of our stay.”

  He tries to argue with me, but my mind is made up. He continues bowing and scraping until he’s out the door along with the hotel security team. I slam the door after them.