by Olivia Dade
“Are you hungry?” Angie whispered to her niece. “Is your belly empty? Aunt Angie’s going to fill it up, peanut. Don’t you worry.”
“You use formula?” Marlene asked Vicky. “You know that breast milk is much better for the baby, Victoria. It promotes a healthy immune system and mother-child bonding. Studies have shown that—”
Vicky abruptly rose from the table. Her chair scraped against the floor with a screech. Without a word, she turned and left the dining room. Right before she turned the corner, though, he could see that her eyes looked overly bright and her mouth was trembling.
Angie leaned across the table, cradling her niece with both hands. “Mom,” she hissed. “Vix is having trouble breastfeeding. She wants to, but the baby can’t latch on to her, and Vix isn’t producing much milk. She already feels terrible about it. So please, please don’t lecture her about the benefits of breastfeeding.”
“Has she looked at studies about the causes of inadequate milk?” Kenneth asked. “Maybe I can research explanations for latching failure and send some information to her.”
Angie’s brows drew down, and her lips thinned. “Whatever you do, do not—I repeat, do not—use the word failure to Vix. In fact, you should let it go. She doesn’t need advice. She just needs your support.”
Angie’s parents looked at each other, appearing hurt and bewildered. But they let the subject drop, at least for the moment.
A few tense minutes later, Vicky reappeared in the dining room with bloodshot eyes. Grant saw Angie’s hand move beneath the table, giving her sister’s knee a subtle pat when Vicky sat back down. Vicky flashed Angie a sad smile in return. She took her daughter back into her arms, patting the baby’s back until Angela let out a startlingly loud belch.
“It’s unfortunate that François couldn’t come tonight,” Kenneth said. “Has he thought about my offer to train him for a job at our company? With a new baby, I’m sure a steady income wouldn’t come amiss.”
“He’s an artist, Dad,” Vicky said in a barely audible voice. “Working at an insurance company would feel like torture to him.”
Marlene frowned. “Surely having a child made him see reason on the issue. Your sweet little girl deserves all the advantages in life she can get.”
Before Marlene could say more, Angie somehow managed to tip her glass of wine onto her sweater.
“Oh, my,” Angie said with a notable lack of surprise or concern. “It appears I spilled wine on my top. How should I get the stain out, Mom?”
“What type of fabric is it? Cashmere?” Marlene asked.
Angie gave the first genuine smile he’d seen in an hour. “No, but I’m glad you asked. Much to my amusement, the tag lists the fabric as one hundred percent cashmare. Spelled M-A-R-E. I can’t help but think that horses were somehow involved in the weaving process.”
Vicky giggled softly.
“You know, dear, when you take into account how much longer cashmere lasts when cared for properly, it makes sense to spend the money on decent fabric,” Marlene advised. “Think about it in terms of cost per wear. Something cheap that pills or fades after a few washes costs more per use than an expensive garment you’ll be able to wear for years to come.”
“Mom, buying pricy clothes never pays off for me. My daily life at work usually results in stains that won’t come out,” Angie said. She held up the hem of her sweater and pointed to a large blotch. “See the dried purple mark down there? Grape juice. Courtesy of Freddie, the most orally-fixated toddler I’ve ever met. No matter how much I try to dodge him, he always manages to get his mouth on me. Somewhere. Somehow.” Angie grinned. “I sincerely hope his mother finds some sort of chastity belt for that boy’s tongue before he makes it to puberty.”
Both Marlene and Kenneth recoiled in horror at that image. As they did, he saw Vicky squeeze Angie’s arm. In thanks for the timely distraction, Grant figured.
Angie’s gambit provided only a temporary respite from the awkwardness. Other delightful topics addressed during the course of the interminable dinner: why the older couple refused to stock beer, Angie’s preferred drink, in their refrigerator (because studies indicated more health benefits for wine, when consumed in moderation); why they’d ceased buying both girls’ favorite brand of cookies (they’d recently discovered partially hydrogenated oils in the ingredient list, thus making the cookies a source of trans fat); why Vicky should have used a medical doctor, rather than a midwife, for Angela’s birth (more statistics, some of them contradictory); the rumpled state of Angie’s skirt (Grant looked down at his plate during that discussion); more about the instability of François’s work as an artist (particularly in a fragile economy, in which people tended to spend less on the arts); and why Angie should move to a larger library system, even though she said she loved her current job (better compensation and promotion possibilities, despite the perk of having Grant as a boss).
Throughout the meal, Marlene and Kenneth never made a single argument that rang false or seemed unreasonable. They never appeared to be anything but loving parents. They merely expressed concern. Pointed out preferable options. Shook their heads in befuddlement at the illogical choices of their girls. The weight of their fond disapproval built and built. It accumulated without pause. Remorselessly. It amassed until even Grant—an outsider, wholly out of the line of fire—felt a little crushed by it all.
The biggest irony: Angie was proven right once again. Her parents adored him. They gushed over his work and praised his decisions. Over the course of the meal, they asked endless questions about his use of data in library policies, pointing out to their girls how rational and praiseworthy his work was. It made him squirm, but he didn’t know how to stop them without being rude. Just as he didn’t know how to intervene in Angie’s defense without potentially embarrassing her or making the situation worse.
All during the dinner, Angie’s face grew paler. He couldn’t get her to make eye contact with him. She took more frequent sips of wine. The lines on her forehead grew deeper, even as she laughed more loudly and began to bait her parents with increasingly outrageous statements. By the time dessert—a fruit plate—arrived, she was telling Marlene and Kenneth about her recent erotica display and the month of probation she’d received for it. She stared at her parents challengingly, inviting their disappointment and concern. Taking a perverse pleasure in it.
Kenneth stared back at her, aghast. “You could have been fired. And rightly so,” he said. “I know your mother and I raised you to be more sensible than that.”
Marlene groaned. “Oh, Angela. What were you thinking?”
A smile of grim satisfaction grew on Angie’s face. Grant watched it. He also watched her eyes turn dull and vacant, her hands clenching in her lap. And something inside him broke. Just broke.
“Marlene and Kenneth,” he said, “do you realize how much Angie’s coworkers and patrons love her? How much they appreciate her hard work and enthusiasm? You’ve raised a kind, warm, and intelligent daughter, and you should be proud. Hell, I’m not even her parent, and I’m proud of her. She doesn’t need fixing. She’s wonderful as she is. And from what I can tell, the same holds true for Vicky.”
Angie’s parents stared at him in confusion.
“Of course we’re proud of Angela and Victoria,” Marlene said. “We even said so earlier. How in the world did you get the impression we weren’t?”
Enough. Enough.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing back his chair and standing. “We need to start heading home. Thank you for this dinner. I’m glad to have met you.”
To a certain extent, he told the truth. After having met her parents, he understood a lot more about Angela Burrowes. For that he was glad. For the rest of it . . . not so much.
He took Angie’s elbow and tugged her up from her seat at the table. She only met his eyes briefly. But when she did, her own no longer looked quite as dull. A tiny spark had returned.
Better, but not good enough. He wanted his Angie back. T
he real one. The one not provoked into reckless rebellion by her parents’ disapproval even as it crushed her.
He paused by Vicky’s chair. “Didn’t you say you had to leave too?”
“Um . . . yes,” she said. “You’re right. I did. Thanks for reminding me.”
She packed her diaper bag and quickly kissed Marlene and Kenneth on their cheeks. They each gave Angela, cradled in Vicky’s arms, a tentative pat on the head. Vicky murmured that she loved them before turning to Angie and collapsing into her sister’s embrace. He released Angie’s arm, letting the two women find comfort in each other.
“Thanks, little sis,” he heard Vicky whisper. “I owe you. Love you.”
After giving Angie a final squeeze, Vicky fled for the door with Angela clutched to her chest. Grant quickly wrapped his fingers around Angie’s upper arm again and began to steer her in the same direction as Vicky.
Angie wriggled out of his grasp and walked over to Marlene and Kenneth. “I love you,” she said, her voice weary. She gave them each a brief hug. “Thank you for dinner. Do you need us to help clean up?”
“No, dear,” Marlene said. “We’re fine. We prepared the food ahead of time and only reheated it tonight, so we don’t have many dishes to wash.”
“Very efficient,” Angie said, a small smile on her face.
“We love you and your sister,” Kenneth told her. “Please come to see us more often.”
“I’ll take a look at my schedule.”
“We miss your laughter,” Marlene said. She turned to Grant. “Doesn’t Angela have the happiest-sounding laugh you’ve ever heard?”
“She does,” he said. “No question about it.”
Then he took Angie’s arm once more, grabbed their coats and her purse from the entryway, and hustled her out the front door. He unlocked his car and opened her door for her. She lowered herself into the seat, swinging her long legs inside the cabin. She didn’t glance his way. Didn’t acknowledge him.
Instead of closing her door right away, he waited. Finally, after a few moments, she looked up at him. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes. Her hands in her lap trembled. She looked exhausted. Dispirited. All he wanted to do was hold her until she smiled and fell asleep in his arms.
But he didn’t have that option. Instead, he needed to do something else. Immediately. Before she put that brave face of hers back on.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he told her. “Get comfortable. You have some explaining to do.”
17
“What’s the problem, Grant? Did my parents not admire you enough at dinner? I could gush over you a bit more, if you’d like,” Angie said, sounding sullen and ungracious. She knew it. She just didn’t give a fuck.
They’d merged onto the interstate. His eyes remained on the road, carefully evaluating the traffic around them. His hands clasped the steering wheel in a firm but relaxed grip. Making sure to keep a generous buffer between his car and everyone else, he accelerated and braked smoothly.
His flawless control over the car, so different from the first time they’d met, only irritated her more. Clearly, the suitcases precariously stacked on his roof had affected his driving earlier in the week. Angie could see no sign of the slow-to-accelerate, brake-happy man she’d met Monday evening. She missed that guy. She wanted him back. He suited her much better than the impeccably dressed man to her left.
That man looked amazing. As if he’d stepped out of the shower and donned a freshly pressed shirt and pants only seconds before. She, on the other hand, appeared to have spent the evening rolling in a wine-soaked Dumpster. Which, to be fair, was probably the best kind of Dumpster, but still. The contrast between the two of them was killing her.
“Angie . . . ,” he said, and then sighed. “Tell me something. From what they’ve said, your parents adore your niece. So why didn’t they hold her for more than a minute during dinner?”
“They love Angela, but babies make Mom and Dad uncomfortable. They prefer to enjoy children from a distance until those children reach the age of reason and predictability.”
“Which is?”
She couldn’t help a small grin. “When it comes to me, they’re still waiting.”
A long silence.
“On the phone with Vicky, you said something about her supporting you when you needed her. And then at dinner, she implied you weren’t doing well when you graduated from college,” he said. “What were the two of you talking about?”
Now it was her turn to fall silent. Did she want to talk about this with Grant when she felt so vulnerable? When he’d recently demonstrated his status as the physical embodiment of her parents’ dream child? Looking at him at the dinner table had felt like watching a stranger. A handsome android, programmed to please her mom and dad with his superior reasoning ability and logical decision-making. The man had received more unstinting approval from her parents tonight than she or Vicky had gotten their entire lives.
Oh, she knew it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t want to be petty. At the moment, though, she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Well, you did let me fall this morning,” she pointed out.
“Because you didn’t give me warning before you dropped like a stone,” he countered. “Although . . .”
She turned to him. “What?”
“It’s possible that I was also a little . . . distracted.”
“By what?”
“The sight of your ass in that skirt. Holy shit, Angie. You have an amazing rear view.”
She felt her shoulders loosen. This. This was the man she wanted. Not always smooth, but always genuine.
“I’m sorry tonight was so awkward,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”
“I’m glad I did. I found it very”—he glanced her way—“informative.”
“I’m also sorry I got pissy when we started driving. My parents bring out the worst in me.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said slowly. “But they obviously make you, um, tense.”
“You noticed!” she said in mock astonishment.
“I know this is a rude question, but I have to ask. You don’t look anything like either one of them. Are you adopted?” he asked.
She laughed. “Good question. I spent most of my childhood convinced I was. Or that my mom had conducted a torrid affair with a Viking. I came up with the second theory after I started working at the bookstore.”
“And started reading historical romances?” he guessed.
“You know it,” she said. “Finally, though, it occurred to me that I look like my aunt Beatrice. She’s tall, blond, and solid too. So I guess I can acquit my mom of adultery with a Norseman.”
He grinned and shot her a quick glance. “If I had to nominate a woman least likely to fuck a random Viking, I’d pick your mom.”
“Seconded.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute before he pressed her again. “You didn’t answer my question. What were you and your sister talking about?”
This time, she fought against her instinctive resistance to telling him. She did trust Grant. And the story couldn’t hurt her. Not anymore.
“I told you I got my undergrad degree in accounting,” she began.
He nodded, his gaze trained on the road ahead. He’d gone very still in his seat.
“My parents were thrilled. Over the moon. For the first time in my life, I knew they approved wholeheartedly of something I’d done. It felt great.” She paused, fighting a familiar ache in her chest.
“It also felt terrible,” she continued. “Because by the time I graduated, I was seriously depressed. Not just sad. Depressed to the point where I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Didn’t want to shower. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t laugh. Thought about running away, leaving college and everyone I knew behind.”
He let out a slow breath, but didn’t say a word.
“It’s a miracle I even graduated. Vick
y came to visit unexpectedly one weekend and caught me before I had a chance to pretend everything was fine. She drove me to see a therapist that afternoon. After that, she basically moved in with me. She slept on the floor of my dorm room until the day I got my diploma, making sure I was okay.”
“Didn’t—” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t your parents see it?” His voice had turned rough, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tight.
“My parents have a hard time understanding and dealing with emotions,” she said, resting her head against the back of the car seat. “Their own or others’. On an intellectual level, I’m sure they recognized my unhappiness. But it didn’t make sense to them, and they didn’t know what to do about it. So they found it easy to ignore.”
She remembered crying in front of her parents during those years, mourning an existence that was reasonable, but not real. Not hers. Instead, it felt like a machine slowly grinding her into dust. When she’d told them so, her parents had stared at her in confusion, dispensed a few pats on the back, and encouraged her to keep in mind the various benefits of her life path.
After a few of those lectures, she didn’t bother with more explanations. At their house, she’d stifle her tears and slap on a brave face. Because, really, what else could she do?
“The depression was because of the accounting?” Grant asked.
“I got depressed because I stopped listening to my own instincts. I ignored what I wanted. What I needed. What brought me joy. I made what my parents considered reasonable choices, like majoring in accounting, and it was killing me.” Her hands twisted in her lap, and she saw him glance at them before turning his attention back to the road.
“So what brought you out of it, Angel?”
His voice had gentled to a near caress, and the clear affection in it soothed the raw edges of her remembered hurt. Her hands stilled again, opening and relaxing on her thighs.