We Don't Talk Anymore

by Julie Johnson

  He’s silent for a tense beat. “Are you back-talking, right now?”

  “I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze to the countertop, studying the glittery facets in the black marble; flickers of light in the darkness. “I promise I won’t embarrass you at the commencement. I’ll work on my speech tomorrow.”

  “Today, I think,” Blair murmurs, picking up her newspaper again. “No time like the present. Don’t you agree, Vincent?”

  His eyes are already scanning the international news bolded across the front page in his hands. “As they say… procrastination is the enemy of progress. You’re nothing if you’re not producing.”

  I don’t say another word. I know from experience that this conversation has reached a stopping point as far as my parents are concerned.

  Decision: made.

  Discussion: over.

  I shift uncomfortably on my stool, watching them read. Five minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. The silence in the kitchen is absolute, except for the occasional shuffling of pages as they switch sections.

  Sports.

  Politics.

  Entertainment.

  Classifieds.

  Gaze downcast, I start in surprise when a coffee cup slides into my view. My eyes flicker up to Flora’s face as I curl my hands around its warmth.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Josephine.” She speaks softly to avoid disturbing my parents. “Do you want breakfast? I can make pancakes. There are fresh blueberries from the garden.”

  “That sounds go—”

  “Flora! There you are.” Blair cuts me off with a shrill exclamation. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the gardens. They are completely unruly. I walked around the estate earlier and was simply mortified by the state of our mulch-beds. Miguel has always been a solid worker but I’m afraid, if he can no longer keep up with the demands of such a large piece of property, perhaps we will need to make some changes around here.”

  “Mom!” I hiss, appalled.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Valentine,” Flora whispers. Her eyes are locked on her shoes. “I will speak to him about it immediately.”

  “Very well. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that Cormorant House be kept at the same standard to which we’ve become accustomed.” Blair sniffs delicately. “That said, I also feel the linens in the master bathroom don’t possess quite their usual crispness. Did you perhaps change our brand of detergent? You are aware, I’m certain, how strongly I feel about using only organic products…”

  I can’t stand to sit here anymore. Can’t stand to hear my mother doling out verbal lashes to the woman who raised me, referring to the man who’s guided my every step as nothing but hired help.

  Unnoticed, I slide off my stool and slip out of the kitchen, retreating to the safety of my bedroom.

  If it wasn’t so upsetting, it would almost be funny: as empty as this house feels when my parents are gone, somehow, it feels even emptier when they finally come home.

  I type three words into the Google search engine, feeling more like a gum-smacking Valley girl than the Class Valedictorian.

  Graduation speech ideas.

  I click enter with low expectations. Apparently, they weren’t low enough. The results that populate the screen are utterly useless — an endless list of laughable clichés and timeworn tropes. Certainly not an address fit to impress my parents.

  Though, in all honesty, they’d probably be happiest if I used my stage time to talk about their life-saving efforts at VALENT.

  My parents, Blair and Vincent Valentine, are a constant source of inspiration…

  Spare me.

  I click away from the useless search results and check my social media pages instead. A tagged photograph taken at last night’s game pops up — me and the twins. The three of us grin into the phone screen beneath the orange-toned stadium lights.

  Was that only yesterday?

  It feels like a lifetime ago. That girl, sandwiched between the twins, smiling happily… she’s a stranger to me. A naive little fool who still believed that, occasionally, life is more than merely a series of heartbreaks and disappointments.

  A girl who existed before Ryan.

  You’re nothing. Nothing but Reyes’ sloppy seconds.

  Before Archer.

  Jo Valentine means nothing to me. Nothing.

  Before Vincent.

  You’re nothing if you’re not producing.

  I brush tears off my cheeks. After all the crying I did last night, I’m surprised there’s any moisture left in my body. If only I could turn some internal faucet to stop my eyes from leaking.

  A ping from my laptop draws my attention. At the bottom corner of my screen, a chat window pops up. Odette’s face pouts at me from her small, circular profile photo.

  Bitch!