Five Parties With My Worst Enemy

by Sharpe, Elle

  Norah gave me a quick look up and down.

  “Luckily you’re dressed sort of slobby for once, so they shouldn’t suspect anything.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong with what I’m wearing? You told me to dress casual.”

  “Yup, a t-shirt and sweatpants are definitely casual, all right.” She patted me on the arm. “I get it, you’re used to wearing suits all the time. You have no idea how normal people dress, so you went a little too far in the opposite direction. It’s fine. Easy mistake.”

  Actually my mistake had been asking Barron for his advice on what counted as “casual” these days. Curse him. For once, Norah—who was wearing a nice blouse—actually looked more put-together than I did.

  I was on the verge of snapping at Norah, but I spotted that playful glimmer in her eyes again. I still wasn’t used to her teasing me nicely instead of nastily.

  A hint of a smile played on her lips as she reached for the doorbell again. The door swung open before she could press it.

  A shorter, sixty-something version of Norah stood in the doorway, wearing a pastel-purple sweater with a button-down shirt underneath. Mrs. Green had copper-brown hair that looked like it had been artificially straightened. And dyed—she had just the tiniest hint of gray showing at her roots.

  She looked at Norah like she wasn’t particularly happy to see her.

  “Hi, Mommy,” Norah said.

  “You’re late,” Mrs Green replied.

  Norah looked like she’d been prepared for this. She held the screen of her phone up in front of her mother’s face.

  “We are actually exactly on time.”

  Her mother tutted.

  “You know that ‘on time,’ means late. Ten to fifteen minutes ahead of schedule is ‘on time.’ You know that’s my philosophy.”

  “And you know that this is a social gathering, not a job interview, right?”

  “I need your help in the kitchen,” Mrs Green said, ignoring the question. “The hors d'oeuvres are already getting behind schedule. And if the hors d'oeuvres get behind schedule then the roast will be behind schedule, and if the roast gets behind schedule-”

  “Yes, yes, I get it. It will trigger a chain reaction and destroy the known universe.”

  “People will get too hungry,” her mother corrected her. “You’re so dramatic.”

  Mrs. Green then flicked her eyes in my direction. She gave me a quick one-over, and her face settled into a frown.

  “I wasn’t expecting Norah to bring anybody,” she informed me.

  “Mommy, this is my friend Ronan,” Norah said. Her voice caught on the word “friend,” for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. “Ronan, my mother.”

  “I might not have enough food for you,” Mrs. Green warned. “I wasn’t told you were coming.”

  “She’s very glad to meet you and she welcomes you to our home,” Norah translated. “And I’m dramatic? You know we always have leftovers for days after these things. There’ll be plenty of food.”

  “Yes, well, maybe if you hurry up and get into the kitchen.”

  Norah turned and raised her eyebrows at me as she followed her mother into the house. “See what you’re getting yourself in for?” her eyebrows asked me.

  As we walked in, I noticed that the back of the door had just as many notes as the front—mostly reminders not to forget things when leaving the house.

  Aside from Norah, her mother, and me, the house was empty. Despite Mrs. Green's complaints about our supposed lateness, it seemed that we were the first to arrive.

  Norah took her shoes off, and instructed me to do the same. I didn’t mind this in principle—it was objectively more hygienic, after all. But for some reason walking around in that house wearing only socks made me feel oddly...exposed.

  Though I’d refrained from commenting on it, I’d noticed a fair amount of messiness at Norah’s apartment when I was there. Her parents’ house was the opposite. Everything was orderly and spotless: a place for everything and everything in its place. Every item—from the pillowcases and rugs to the candlesticks and trinkets on the mantelpiece—had been curated and color-matched to within an inch of its life, mostly in tones of canary yellow and pale pink.

  Often I found neatness calming. But not here. Here there was an eerie tension in the air. You got the impression that if anything got nudged slightly out of place a delicate balance would be interrupted, and the whole house might come crumbling down on your head.

  I also noticed that this was one of those houses with printed phrases everywhere. Words like “Smile” and “Make Every Day Great!” were scrawled on couch cushions and framed on the wall. These cheerful commands were interspersed with even more homemade signs reminding everyone the right way to close cabinet doors and to turn off lights when leaving the room. It made for an interesting contrast.

  We walked through the open plan living room/kitchen/dinner, over to a massive kitchen island of gleaming marble.

  “Here.” Norah’s mom handed her several printed-out recipes, heavily scribbled with notes about how to do things better than the way the recipe said to do them. Norah set to work like a robot, silently obeying as her mother started giving her more instructions.

  Slice the cucumber. No, not like that. Thinner. Measure out one fourth a teaspoon of this, one eighth a teaspoon of that. Put these three things into the food processor. No, the other food processor. And pulse for exactly twenty-two seconds. No more, no less.

  Norah executed one command after another, and didn’t even look particularly annoyed about it. This was clearly just a normal visit as far as she was concerned.

  I, on the other, hand was becoming increasingly agitated. I was always careful to warn my management mentees about the dangers of micromanaging. Norah’s mother wasn’t even acting like a mother. She was acting like a boss. A bad boss.

  Then she turned her attention to me again, realizing that I could also be useful.

  “Roman? Can I get your help peeling some potatoes.”

  Technically, she was asking a question. But she spoke the words in the tone of a statement. If she’d actually asked—and if she’d remembered my name—I’d have been happy to help. Instead I could feel my jaw clenching in irritation. I wasn’t used to being ordered around. Especially as a guest.

  Norah shot a sarcastic grin at me. Like, “Isn’t this fun?”

  It was then that I realized this was all part of the test. Norah wanted to see if her mother would break me. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. I ran a major corporation full of difficult characters. I could handle one middle-aged suburbanite.

  So, yes. I held my tongue and I peeled the potatoes.

  Norah’s mother hovered over as we worked, silently evaluating. I’d never been more grateful for my passable kitchen skills.

  Thankfully her overseeing didn’t last long. Apparently she was “too pressed for time” to keep such a close eye on us forever. There were other very important preparations that she needed to get to work on in some other part of the house.

  I couldn’t help but notice that she gave me a very pointed, disapproving look before departing. And I couldn’t help but be offended—especially considering how many “Most Eligible Bachelor” lists I’d been on recently. Apparently Mrs. Green was not the sort of middle-aged suburbanite who read those. I wondered if she’d look at me differently if she knew who I was.

  I wondered if that was why Norah had told me not to tell anyone. She didn’t want me to have an “unfair advantage.”

  Now that we were alone in the kitchen I gave into temptation and maneuvered my way closer to Norah. Our arms touched, and I felt a soft jolt of feeling pass through me. We hadn’t touched in weeks. I tried not to let her see how much it affected me.

  The chopped zucchini needed to be baked into mini zucchini-and-cheese muffins. Cucumber slices needed to be topped with homemade hummus and tomato. Feta cheese cubes needed to be skewered with watermelon and basil leaves. Eggs needed to be deviled, several dif
ferent ways. Green beans needed to be casseroled. And then the chicken and the rack of lamb that were marinating in the fridge needed to go in the oven. And if we were still working when the rest of the family started arriving mother dearest would not be pleased.

  “I bet I can chop my cucumber faster than you can chop yours,” I whispered to Norah. “Want to make it a contest?”

  Norah

  “Are you asking me to play a game with you?” I whispered to Ronan. “I didn’t think you would lower yourself to such silliness.”

  “Oh no. It’s not silly at all,” he assured me. “I’m challenging you to a very serious competition.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “And if you’re not going to take the challenge seriously I may just withdraw my offer.”

  Ronan kept his voice so deadpan that I actually almost believed him. There was only the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eye.

  I felt a smile creep onto my face.

  “Alright then, Baylor. Let’s see what you got.”

  “Ready? Three...Two...One…”

  We each let loose on our cucumbers like they were our mortal enemies. I tried my best to decimate mine as quickly as possible, but I hadn’t even made it halfway through when I saw that Ronan had finished his. And unlike me, he’d managed to keep all of his slices neat and even.

  “Pff. Show off.”

  He grinned at me.

  “How did you learn to do that?” I asked. “Or was this one of those talents you were just born with?”

  “When I was about ten I started annoying my mom, wandering around the house whining about not having anything to do or anyone to hang out with. She started worrying that I was getting spoiled. And I probably was. So she said, ‘You want something to do? You’re going to learn a skill.’

  “So she sent me to some cooking classes. Very high end ones, of course. And I enjoyed it. I stuck through it all through my teenaged years. And I still like cooking now. I find it calming.”

  “Aaaah,” I said knowingly, waiving my knife in his direction. “I see what you’re doing here. Presenting me with your boyfriend resume, huh? Very sly. Very slick. Are you saying that if we dated there would be more pancakes and more perfectly-sliced cucumbers in my future?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly.

  “That’s certainly a possibility. Though if I was really trying to tempt you I’d probably mention all the Michelin-starred chefs that I could hire to cook for you.”

  “Ah, but that doesn’t nearly have the same appeal as Ronan Baylor himself waiting on me. I’m sure you understand.”

  Mom suddenly poked her head through the door to the basement.

  “Are you working or chatting over there?” She demanded.

  Like obedient school children we returned to silently chopping. Ronan casually busted out his lightening-fast chopping skills on all of his remaining vegetables, while I watched in awe.

  Once he’d finished and moved on to mixing zucchini muffin batter he started following Mom with his eyes, as she hurried back and forth putting up banners and cleaning parts of the house that were already clean. Occasionally I saw her shoot him a disapproving look.

  “I get the impression your mom already doesn’t like me,” Ronan said.

  “Yeah, she thinks guys are a distraction from me getting my life together. I bet she’s imagining all the ways that you’re a bad influence.”

  He looked a little insulted.

  “Don’t I look responsible?” he asked.

  “Well, the sweatpants aren’t doing you any favors. And that v-neck totally says ‘bad-boy’ to me.”

  “Yes, yes I know,” he grumbled. “I get it. I should have tried to be more presentable.”

  “I don’t know. I kind of like it,” I said before I could stop myself. I saw a smile rise to his lips.

  Damn, he really did look good. I’d teased him about looking “slobby,” but that wasn’t really true. He looked like he could be modeling for Uniqlo—casual, sure, but still with a certain amount of Ronan-y together-ness. This was just a softer, toned down version. And it seemed to emphasize some of his best features. Charming, sly smile: check. Exposed neck flesh: check.

  “I can’t say I really mind seeing you a little more exposed,” I murmured, gesturing at the patch of skin that the v-neck revealed. “You know, without all your billionaire armor.”

  I let my fingers dance closer and closer to the skin, almost close enough to touch.

  Mom dashed past us like a blur with cleaning spray and a rag in her hand. I pulled my hand away and turned back to my chopping.

  “What else could she need to do?” Ronan muttered. “I know that I have no idea how normal suburbanites live their lives, but isn’t this a bit over the top for a casual family get-together?”

  “Oh, it's a very serious undertaking,” I told him. “The house needs to be cleaned the day before, but it also needs to be re-cleaned just before the party begins, because dust will have settled in between. Then there’s the table settings, and the centerpieces. Where would we be without the centerpieces? I mean, do you know how the rest of the family would react if they sat down at a dinner table without centerpieces?”

  “How would they react?”

  “They would...not even notice the difference.”

  I dipped a finger into the hummus-like concoction I’d created in the food processor, and brought it to my lips to taste.

  “On the other hand, she always manages to find terrible recipes. So that’s something else she’s got going for her.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” Ronan mused.

  “Understand what?”

  “Where your snarky sense of humor comes from,” he said. “It’s a survival mechanism.”

  “Gotta laugh to keep from crying. That’s what I always say. And just you wait. You haven’t even met the other half of the double-act yet.”

  “Is your dad like this too?”

  “Imagine, like, exactly the same, but the exact opposite. You’ll see soon enough. Well, probably.”

  With the help of Ronan’s semi-professional cooking skill we had all the meal prep done just before guests started arriving. The muffins came out of the oven perfectly moist and fluffy. Ronan lined up the cucumbers and the watermelon skewers in perfect rows, like they were being presented at a five-star restaurant. The meat was cooking away in the oven. He even mixed some mysterious combination of herbs in with the humus, which made it taste a lot less awful.

  “Thank goodness,” Mom declared. I could tell that she was begrudgingly impressed. She started eying Ronan like he was some kind of new, unexpectedly useful kitchen implement. I could tell she was thinking of putting him to work on something else, and I decided to intervene.

  “Thank you so much for all your help,” I said pointedly to Ronan, with a friendly pat on the arm.

  Well it was meant to be a friendly pat, but it sort of turned into a sort of extended stroke. I couldn’t help it, okay? He had such warm, smooth arms.

  “You really didn’t have to help, it was so nice of you. Why don’t you go enjoy the party?” I suggested. “Taste a few of those cucumbers?”

  Mom squeezed her lips together, but didn’t argue.

  Ronan gave me a quick peck on the cheek—an act I probably should have forbidden. My face heated under the touch of his lips. Then he smiled charmingly right in my mother’s face, and strolled off to eat some of those cucumbers and introduce himself to my uncle Jeff, who had just arrived.

  I thought about going over to join him. Uncle Jeff was one member of the family that I didn’t mind spending time with, even if he made about ten dad jokes a minute. And I was curious to see how he and Ronan would get along.

  Unfortunately mom got to me first.

  “Norah, I need your help at the door. Make sure everyone signs the guest book.”

  “Do I have to?” I asked. Even though I thought her request was objectively ridiculous—who has a guestbook for their own family?—I was the one w
ho ended up sounding like a petulant teenager.

  Mom’s face went stern. She was not about to tolerate decent.

  “Are you saying you don’t think our family memories are important?” she asked. How did she manage to sound righteously mad and personally wounded at the same time?

  “No, no, Mom. The book is very important,” I said, in my well-practiced soothing-mother’s-hurt-feelings voice. “I know you put a lot of work into it.”

  It was true, she had. Every year she decorated a new book for the family reunion, made sure everyone wrote their little message in it, and filled up the pages in the back with pictures of people sitting around looking bored, or trying to run away from the camera. It wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, a scrapbook, but like everything else she did, it felt like enforced fun.

  If I didn’t help her with this very important aspect of the day she would take it as an insult. So I took up my post by the door, greeted each incoming family member with a smile, and refused to let them actually enter the party until the book had been signed.

  The family knew the drill by now, and they put up with it, though I could tell some of them thought it was a little pathetic. Most of them had real lives and real careers, and probably couldn’t relate to taking something like a scrapbook so seriously.

  I couldn’t help but run through their credentials in my mind as they entered the house.

  Uncle Kevin—an investment banker— was Mom’s oldest brother. He never went anywhere without his Rolex on his arm. He looked at the cutesy flowers of the guest book with a sneer. He would probably spend the whole party on the phone, acting like he had much more important things to be dealing with. In the back of my mind I’d been wondering whether he and Ronan would get along. I sincerely hoped not.

  Uncle Isaac was next in line. He and his wife Ruth were both bio-engineers, and their twin daughters Lela and Kyran were full-on prodigies. At eight years old they were already doing high-school level coursework.

  The twins smiled and hugged me when they came in. They liked me—I was the only one in the family who actually made any effort to play with them. I gave them a big growly bear hug and ruffled their hair, which made them giggle.