Considering these are Kyle’s parents we’re talking about, I feel good saying it’s the first.
“Lincoln,” Richard says, the word a greeting and a warning. He doesn’t bother looking at me.
Gotta say, having met their demon of a son, I was expecting worse. More… pizzazz. There’s a patch of hair the size of a quarter left at the tip of his widow’s peak, and it must be clinging for dear life because it’s all that’s left on the wasteland that is his scalp.
Beside him, Helen applies a smile, as though she just now remembered it’s a thing humans do. Her dark hair is trimmed into a bob so thick it reminds me of the hedges that line the top of the driveway. They’re both dressed in head-to-toe summer beige, and honestly, I could kick myself for even being surprised. All that’s missing is a small dog and a Stetson.
We all turn at the arrival of several cars.
Kyle arrives first, in a car that looks like a piece of coal mated with a spaceship. It’s big and loud, and I can see the ozone layer deteriorating before my eyes as he skids to a stop.
He bypasses us with a snide grin, shaking his own father’s hand before going for a hug with Helen. The only person who gets a real reaction from her is, of course, her son. I did not need the evidence to tell me that Kyle has a mommy complex, but ew, there it is. In all its lip kissing glory.
Several doors slam, and Sally waves a hand in passing that is either her saying hello or telling us to fuck off, and actually, from the way she pushes past her husband, her nose pointed in the air, I’m guessing it’s both. Neither her husband nor her sons say a word to us as they head inside.
“I’m starting to think I should be offended,” I whisper.
Darcy leans in. “It’s just the breeding, love. Lots of sketchy cousins. Don’t take it personally.”
I snort loudly. I can think of one in particular.
The last arrival is the dreaded Judy.
As she steps out of a silver sports car in a loose linen shirt and capris, her straw-colored hair falls around her face and shoulders as though she demanded it stay in line or else. The thump of her car door (a surprisingly humble white Honda) echoes as she faces off against Richard. And if I see one tumbleweed, I’m getting straight back in the car.
“Hayden is visiting his father. You get me instead.”
Her eyes slowly take us all in, pausing long enough on me that I feel my stomach bottom out. I’m sure if I looked down, I’d find it shriveled between my beat-up sneakers. Her expression is inscrutable.
“I feel like she’s looking into my soul, discovering I failed at cursive, and will never forgive me,” I whisper in Darcy’s direction.
I can hear the smile in Lincoln’s voice when he leans in to reply. “Aunt J’s okay if she likes you.”
“Oh, great,” I whisper. How the hell am I going to make that happen?
We’re informed (only because Judy actually asks) that Betty is napping and Joe is walking in the gardens with Art. Judy excuses herself in that direction without another word.
Okay, then.
Looking so bored I’m half worried he’s having a stroke, Richard finally spares a look in my direction, taking in my outfit before saying, “Please remember to dress appropriately this weekend. You may lounge in whatever you like at home, but consider the impression you’re giving while you’re here.”
He sighs heavily and heads back inside without another word.
“Don’t take it personally,” Darcy says when it’s just the three of us again. “He’s like that with everyone.”
It is personal. But the joke’s on him, because I just pulled a fresh batch of grudges out of the oven, and I’m feeling generous.
Lincoln’s choice to stay with his father for so long makes so much more sense now. Like a flashing billboard warning that I really shouldn’t have waved off as many times as I did.
“Is it too late to turn around?” I ask.
“Never,” he answers, but I know as long as he’s here, so am I.
“Don’t you dare leave me here alone,” Darcy says, grabbing my hand and striding confidently toward the house. “You’re the only reason I’ve been looking forward to this weekend.”
Our room isn’t a room. I mean, technically it’s a room, with four walls, a coffered ceiling, marble floors, and a connected bathroom (not to mention the giant four-poster bed that I definitely can’t look directly at without thinking about the last time Lincoln and I slept next to each other).
But it’s so far from any other room I’ve been in. For one, it’s the size of my entire apartment. There’s a working fireplace with a gray chaise facing it, matching gray curtains over floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the empty stable, and a huge white rug that must be a bitch to clean.
