I fire off an email to Thomas, telling him what to do next, hoping he doesn’t fuck it up, then I escape into a story about a nuclear divorce, gorging on the details of the wife having to rush the husband to the ER after he got alcohol poisoning from taking vodka shots straight up his ass.
“Do you know if the dates are finalized yet?” comes Bianca’s artificially sweet voice from across the room.
Looking up from the magazine, I ask, “What areyoudoing here?”
“I know Elliot is supposed to have dinner with his parents tonight, but I really need the dates, and he refuses to ask his mom.”
Shrugging, I say, “How would I know?”
“I was just hoping that maybe your parents had mentioned something.”
“My father and mystepmom. She’s not my parent. And why would they say anything to me? It’s your honeymoon.”
“I know, but with you living here, I didn’t know if you might have overheard something.”
“You think I have nothing better to do than eavesdrop?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Then maybe you should make yourself more clear.”
“And maybe you should stop being such a bitch.”
Surprised by her newfound boldness, I smile. “You know, sometimes I actually start to think I might like you.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, her cheeks turning crimson.
“That was short-lived.” I go back to my magazine, wondering how she could be so oblivious to what’s been right under her nose. And while I firmly believe stupidity should absolutely be punished, I don’t think what’s happening to her is fair.
She comes around the couch and sits at my feet. Looking at her over my magazine, I raise one perfectly manicured eyebrow.
“I was hoping we could talk,” she says nervously.
“About?”
“Maybe we could take in a movie. Or go bowling.”
I show her my newly tipped nails. “Why would I go bowling?”
“To get to know me better?”
I snort out a condescending laugh and go back to my magazine. “Good one.”
“Samantha, I’m serious! We’re going to be family soon, and one day, you’re going to be my children’s aunt. What kind of aunt do you want to be?”
“The absent one.”
“Are you serious?”
Realizing that getting rid of her won’t be easy, I set down my magazine and scoot into a sitting position, the arm of the couch at my back.
“Look, Bianca, I know you assume the worst of me. I know you think I hate you because you grew up poor, and that you’re not good enough for my family. But none of those things are true.”
A look of relief washes over her face.
“I hate you because your voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and your bubbly smile makes me wince.” I shake my magazine. “Now, if you don’t mind, I was reading up on the latest royal drama.”
She grabs the magazine from my hands, which is the most confrontational I’ve ever seen her be.
