“Sure, let’s just keep them away from me,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel.
What Idofeel is the weight of Danny’s gaze on me, like he recognizes the wrongness of this whole conversation—of my mom not knowing that I’m allergic to shellfish and insisting they be served on a table I’m eating at—and wants to know if I’m actually okay with it.
The thought of him caring more for my well-being than my own mother has a lump forming in my throat, and I have to remind myself that not wanting me to die isnotthe same as actually caring. I’ve been known to glom onto a little detail like that and conflate it in my mind to mean something it doesn’t. And that’s not a road I’m willing to go down again... especially not now, with my stepbrother.
Fuck my life.
My friends always say I have the most shit luck of anyone they’ve ever known, and I’m sure they’d find this whole thing hysterical. Hell, if it were happening to anyonebutme, I’d probably find it funny, too.
Danny must mistake the slight shake of my shoulders as I try to hold the laughter in for something else, because he runs his knuckles along my outer thigh beneath the table. When I glance at him, his eyes are narrowed on me. “You sure?”
“Positive,” I say, shifting in my chair so his hand falls away. The glide of his knuckles along the thin fabric of my bridesmaid dress brings back too many memories of last night, and dinner with our parents is the last place I want to be when envisioning us together.
The waiter returns to take our order, and we fall into conversation that lasts through dinner, most of which my mom dominates. Max seems content to let her talk, and maybe he’s even amused by her vivaciousness. Mom can be great in small doses. I’m curious to see what happens when that dose builds up to toxic levels, and what happens to their relationship when it does.
My mom wasn’t always like this. She was always a bit insecure and clingy, always needing external validation. My childhood was a happy one, though.
I was ten years old and had just hit puberty when things started to shift between my parents. At the time, I was incredibly focused on how my body was changing, how my friends’ opinions of me seemed to be shifting as my body developed before theirs, and how my mom was suddenly so critical of me. So maybe I wasn’t attuned enough to figure outwhythings changed between my parents—why my mom suddenly became too much for my dad to deal with—right then.
“What do you think, Morgan?” Mom asks, and my gaze snaps to her. Luckily, I think she can tell that I was lost in my own thoughts, because she prompts me, “Boating tomorrow sounds fun, right?”
“Sure,” I say through a fake smile, not even a little surprised she’s forgotten that I’m terrified of the open water. I don’t want to remind her because, after the oysters, I’m afraid I’ll make her look bad in front of her new husband. “I love boats.”
I can tell from her bright smile that adding my love of boats doesn’t trigger any memories for her. Next to me, I feel, ratherthan see, Danny tense up, like he can tell I’m lying even though my mom has no clue.
“It’s not a very big boat,” he says, “we’ll just take it over to St. George’s. Then there’s a really nice private beach we can go to, and a shipwreck we can snorkel around if we want. It’s all within the bay, so the water is pretty calm.”
“Sounds lovely,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t convey my anxiety. As long as there are life vests and I can see the shore, I’ll be fine.
“Perfect way to spend your twenty-seventh birthday, right?” Mom says.
I clear my throat. “Twenty-eighth.”
Max laughs and rubs my mom’s shoulder, saying, “There’s no way anyone would believe you have a twenty-seven-year-old daughter, sweetie, much less one who is twenty-eight.” The irony of him being her plastic surgeon is probably not lost on anyone at the table.
In fact, if Danny’s clenched jaw is any indication, I’d say he hasn’t missed the irony at all. I watch him as he looks at our parents together, and it occurs to me then that his name doesn’t fit him at all.
Danny is a happy-go-lucky name. Maybe that name would have felt right last night—though not half as well as Nicholas, if you ask me.
But tonight? This rigid man, who seems to alternate between pissed off and concerned, does not seem like a Danny. There’s a darkness there, an underlying resentment, that I didn’t see last night. I wonder if he has the same kind of relationship with his dad that I have with my mom? Maybe this is as hard for him as it is for me?
Mom’s eyes flit back and forth between us as she takes her napkin from her lap and sets it on her empty plate. “Who feelslike a little dancing? There’s a club at the hotel right up the road.”
A laugh escapes even though I don’t mean it to. Mom’s always accused me of being an “old soul,” and I always remind her that someone has to be. Sometimes I wish I could be a free spirit like she is. But in my mind, “free spirit” is just a polite way to say “selfish.” The kind of person who puts their wants above everyone else’s needs, even their own child’s.
“I wish I had the energy for that,” I say. “You kids have fun.”
Mom laughs and says, “We’re the kids?”
Max presses a kiss to my mom’s temple and says, “You make me feel like a kid again.”
Once again, I wonder how long he’ll be enamored with that aspect of her before he realizes she’s technically an adult, but never really grew up. My best guess is that Max is nearing sixty. He’s already raised his son, and while my mom might make him feel young right now, he’ll tire of her eventually.
Six months.I give it until between Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day before it all falls apart. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten exceptionally accurate in predicting these things.
“I’m out too,” Danny says from beside me.
“Well, if you two are going to be complete downers,” Mom says with a giggle, “we’ll just have to go without you. C’mon, Max,” she says, pulling him up, “take me dancing.”
