It wasn’t that she saw a glass of wine and had an insatiable urge to drink it. Poppy wasn’t plagued by cravings, and it didn’t bother her being around people who drank. It didn’t even bother her kissing Rosaline after she’d had a glass of champagne, that Poppy could taste it on her lips. It was that once Poppy started drinking, she just didn’t want to stop, didn’t know how to stop, didn’t stop.
Mom knew that. Poppy had explained it to her, but either she hadn’t really been listening or she didn’t care. Maybe both.
Rosaline (3:25 p.m.):Jesus.
Poppy (3:25 p.m.):Oh, and my niece Maddie, who is only three years younger than me, brought her fiancé and, unlike me, she gets to sit at the adult table.
“Aunt Poppy?”
Her niece Zoe was watching her from across the table.
Poppy set her phone down beside her plate. “Yeah, munchkin?”
“How come you’re sitting in here with us?”
Poppy blew out her breath. Great question. “Well, Zoe, do you know what a black sheep is?”
Predictably, eight-year-old Zoe shook her head, pigtails swishing.
That was probably for the best. Educating her nieces and nephews on the finer points of what it meant to be the family failure could wait until at least Mom brought out the pie. “Pass me your plate and I’ll fix it for you, okay?”
Rather than sit and stew in a puddle of pity like she wanted, Poppy dug deep for the strength and serenity to get through this day and then did what she did best: put on a brave face and crack jokes to make the younger kids laugh. Every time she got a little too loud, a little too animated, Mom would throw her one of those pinched-lipped frowns from the dining room, chastising her without saying a word.
“Penelope,” her aunt Donna called from the dining room and Poppy paused with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to her mouth. “Tell us, are the rumors true?”
“Donna, let’s not,” Mom said, and for the first time all day, Poppy agreed with her mother.
It was one thing to be banished to the kiddie table; the others talking to her while she was at said table just felt like drawing unnecessary attention to the indignity of it all. Rubbing salt in the wound. Poppy would rather everyone just ignore her. Leave her to eat her dry-as-sawdust turkey and soggy green bean casserole and bland-as-fuck mashed potatoes in peace.
Poppy set her fork down with a sigh. “What rumors?”
“Is it true that Cash proposed? That he and Lyric Adair are engaged?”
Maddie whirled around in her chair and gasped. “No way.”
Poppy swallowed a groan. “No, they’re not.”
“Are you sure?” her cousin Stacee asked, eyes narrowed shrewdly, looking at Poppy like she wasn’t sure whether she was lying or maybe just dumb and in the dark. She definitely wasn’t looking at Poppy like she believed her.
“Am I sure that my best friend isn’t engaged?” Poppy struggled to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’d have told me.”
“Pretty sure,” Stacee echoed. “But you aren’t positive.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Poppy muttered under her breath, earning a giggle from one of the kids. Her utterance would undoubtedly come back to bite her in the ass when her words got repeated. That was the price Mom would have to pay for putting Poppy at the kids’ table. “Cash isnotengaged. I would know.”
“You know,” her cousin Emma said, “I always thought you and Cash would eventually get together.”
Poppy snorted. “That’s disgusting.”
“Penelope,” Mom admonished. “Cash is lovely. You’d be so lucky.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cash is like a brother to me. And he’s very, very happy with Lyric.”
“What about those other rumors? About you and—what’s her name? That publicist.” Her cousin Andrew waggled his brows. “She’s hot.”
His wife smacked him on the arm.
“Rosaline Sinclair,” Jessica said. “That’s her name. Lyric’s publicist.”
