"I don't want to upset her," my mom responds, less than gently.
"Neither do I, but we owe it to her to tell her."
"Tell me what?" I ask, stepping in and leaning a shoulder against the wall.
Dad sighs. He gestures out to the porch, saying, "Let's talk about it out there."
I settle in at the table, watching as my dad helps my mom sit back. He fetches two more pillows, placing them between her back and the wicker chair. "Good?" he asks.
She nods and murmurs, "Thank you."
The second he's seated, I say, "We're here. Tell me, please."
He and my mother exchange a look. He picks up the white serving dish laden with juicy barbecue chicken, using the same tongs to place a portion on each plate.
"Da-ad," I pester, worry mounting. This must have something to do with my mom. Did she get more bad news? Did the doctor say she has less time than he initially thought? What about?—
"We need to talk about the new friend you've made."
I stare at my dad's forehead because he refuses to look at me, busying himself with dishing out potato salad like it's the most important thing he will accomplish today. "What?"
He sets the bowl down and is forced to meet my eyes. "Peter, I believe?"
"Yes," I say slowly. "He's my patient."
Mom covers my hand with her own. "Are you sure that's all he is?"
Dalliance.Dammit Duke, you and your fancy word.
"Yes, Mom. Well, no." Mom's eyes bulge. "I mean, he's also a friend. He already knows Hugo, it's not like I brought him in from a ravine somewhere and made him my new project." No more projects here, aside from tearing out my cabinets myself, and now I have piles of stuff everywhere and no cabinets.
Mom laughs harder than is necessary, looking to bring peace to this conversation as soon as possible.
"Daisy," my dad says, quiet but determined. "People are talking about how much time you're spending with your new friend."
I arch an eyebrow. "People? Or Glenn Hampton?"
Dad looks surprised I know. "Glenn called me, because someone else called Glenn when they saw you at Hugo's rental property."
"You can rest easy, Dad. I already know all this, and Duke and I have already dealt with it."
Mom claps her hands, eyes lighting up. "Perfect. We have nothing to worry about. You and Duke are still headed down the aisle. No trouble in paradise after all."
"None whatsoever," I confirm, though my father isn't so quick to let my response be enough. He's watching me closely, turning it all over in his mind.
"Remember, Daisy, how you act reflects on everybody."
My molars grind. "I know, Dad. I havealwaysknown that." I don't need the reminder. At all. Ever.
"I'm sure, Daisy, but do you really understand that what you do also now reflects on Duke? On the Hamptons?"
Under the table, my thighs tighten. Jaw clenches. My heart races, a thoroughbred stomping its hooves in my breastbone.
"Yes," I grit out. "I do."
Stress claws at me. Thickening my throat, a boulder forming. It's everything I can do to chew and swallow, to force the food past the lump.
The conversation moves on. My parents make small talk, and I listen without contribution. My dad is telling my mom about a couple who had a marital spat during a recent tour of the thoroughbred facility. The wife ended up getting in their car and locking herself in. The husband ignored her tantrum, went for lunch at Spot, and hit on the young lady working.
