“The social media blackout remains in effect until after the New Year,” Mom starts, taking the wallet and doing what my hands couldn’t. She shows me that I’m right. Untouched cards are nestled in the fine black slips inside. “But we thought it only fair you should be given access to your funds once more.”
“So you’re aware, the island sold for a little more than what you paid for it. Honestly, even I was shocked. I guess having the family name attached to it hiked up the value a bit. I was lucky to fob that island off on an acquaintance. I spun a few tales like the ones you told me—all thatpotentialnonsense. Glad he ate it up. You’ll see that the profit has been deposited into your account,” Dad informs me, very businesslike, producing a bill of sale from his pocket. “Be sure to put that in the lockbox I gave you for important documents.”
This is all happening quickly. I thought they’d ease me back into the old way. It seems they are set on speedily moving past this. Which makes me wonder why those matching looks of upset linger on their faces. Mom takes a big gulp of her champagne.
“Th-thank you,” I stammer, unsure if I’m grateful for the letup or fettered by the shackles of these sharp pieces of plastic again.
“You’re welcome, Matthew,” Mom says in an unrecognizable voice. What is she doing with that napkin?
Uneasy and unable to ignore it through this whole meal, I say, “If it was that easy, it’s clearly not why you sent me to Wind River.”
My statement sends a shock wave around the table, maybe through the whole place.
The “café,” which is larger than most restaurants in New York City, grows louder. Families reunite. Tourists stream in with shopping bags and hugs to give. Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“We need you to be smarter with your expenses from now on, okay? Your mom and I work hard for that money, and now…with, uh…” Dad pauses.
“With what?” I ask.
“We just expect you to be more careful and considerate of your spending,” he finishes.
Mom speaks from the bottom of her first glass of champagne. “I think what your father is trying to get at is that, um, it’s clear you felt a strain on our family, and rightly so because…”
I brace myself for news of a big move, an affair they’ve parsed through without my knowledge, a work snafu that needs to be hush-hush covered up. The classics all my classmates’ families went through back in the day. That juicy gossip that got leaked to Deuxmoi.
“We’re getting divorced,” Mom concludes, voice low so no one overhears.
Right as she says it, an inexperienced server drops a portly white china pot nearby. The hot brown tea seeps into the lavish golden carpet. I watch as the stain spreads, begins to set, needing something to focus my eyes on that isn’t my parents.
“You’re what?” My ears are ringing too loudly for me to be certain I’ve heard correctly.
“Your father and I are getting a divorce,” Mom says again. Her statement is blunt, declarative. It punctures me. “This arrangement is no longer suiting us, so we’ve decided to part ways. So you can see why we need you to be less spend-happy as we split our assets.”
Quickly, I invent a fake Children of Divorce Dance. No parents allowed. Part support group, part drink-fueled rager. It’s at a Midtown pub with mirrored walls and low lighting. The signature cocktail is a Daddy Issues Daiquiri and the food special is Mom’s Not Coming Home Mashed Potatoes. (They even come with a tiny plastic mallet to do some heated mashing yourself.)
The details calm me enough to come around to it. It’s painful, sure, but it’s survivable. Right? It has to be.
“When you were young, you always said you wanted two Christmases,” Mom offers. I guess a half-ass silver lining is better than no silver lining at all. I nod heavily.
“Matthew, I think it’s fair to say your mother and I haven’t been happy together for a long time, and…” I notice Mom kick him under the table, prompting him to speak up. Not beat around the bush. Summon some of his businessman steel. “I’ve met someone.”
“He says he’s in love,” Mom tosses in for good measure.
“With who?”
Dad grows ruddy, won’t meet my gaze. “Ellie Barton.”
Dad’s a polished man with nice hair and a lean figure, but he’s leaps and bounds below former supermodel Ellie Barton’s level. She’s the kind of woman that breaks Instagram records for likes and follower counts. The kind of woman that leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake.
Wow, I invited her to my New Year’s Eve party last year. Baz and Spencer introduced her to me. I introduced her to Dad. How stupid had I been?
I’m tempted to ask if this strange arrangement dates back to the party. Was I the catalyst for this cataclysmic corruption of our lives?
But then again, what about me and my selfish actions? I haven’t made it easy on them. I know that. Vying for their attention when they receive it in droves on such a grand scale became an obsession. I convinced myself I needed to work overtime to get them to see me.
Now, for the first time, maybeI’mseeingthem.
“I want to explore what we have further,” Dad says. Suddenly, it clicks why we met him here. He’s been staying here. That’s why he wasn’t padding around the apartment this morning. Somewhere in his blazer pocket he’s got a room key. Ellie Barton may be up in a suite waiting for this charade to end, the other shoe to drop.
