“Emily. You’re here.”
“Hi, Mom.” I leaned in for the obligatory air kiss, cheek to cheek, careful not to actually make contact. “Thanks for having me.”
“Of course. Come in.” She stepped back, gesturing me inside. “Though I have to say, you look a bit peaked. Are you feeling alright?”
Five seconds. I’d been here five seconds and she’d already found something wrong with me.
“I’m fine. Just tired from work.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes traveled over me, cataloging and assessing. “Well, you’re here now. Your father’s in his office, but he’ll join us for lunch. I’ve made that chicken salad you love.”
I never loved that fucking chicken salad.
I followed her through the house, my feet remembering the path even though I didn’t want them to. Everything was exactly as it had always been. Cream walls, art that Mom had chosen because it matched the furniture, fresh flowers in crystal vases. The house smelled like lemon polish and fresh linen and something else I didn’t want to think about. Something cold.
The dining room table was set for three. White plates, silver cutlery, cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles. A pitcher of iced tea sat in the center, condensation beading on the glass.
“Sit, sit.” Mom gestured to my usual seat, the one facing the window. “I’ll just go get your father.”
She disappeared down the hallway and I sank into the chair, my hands twisting together in my lap. Through the window, I could see the backyard. The pool that I’d never been allowed to use because chlorine was bad for my skin. The garden that Mom had hired professionals to maintain because she didn’t want dirt under her nails. The garden shed. I could barely see it from this angle, but just knowing it was there made my stomach churn.
Mom returned, with Dad trailing behind her like a shadow. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, his hair graying at the temples, his expression pleasant and blank.
“Emily.” He nodded at me. “Good to see you.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He sat down at the head of the table and immediately reached for the iced tea. Mom settled across from me, smoothing her napkin across her lap with precise movements.
“So.” She served herself some chicken salad, then passed the bowl to Dad. “How’s work? Still working as Mia’s assistant?” Hertone managed to convey clearly that she wasn’t impressed with my lowly status.
“Yes, I’m still Mia’s assistant.” As if that would have changed in the past few weeks.
“That must be interesting.”
I gritted my teeth.
“And of course, it’s good to know your limits. Not everyone is made to be a corporate highflyer like Mia.”
I caught the subtext loud and fucking clear. Not everyone is as smart or as driven as Mia. Of course, by everyone, she just meant me.
I ladled some salad onto my plate and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard, but that might have just been my throat closing up.
“Actually, I’m still taking art classes.” The words spilled out before I could stop them. “I’m working on my portfolio. There’s a scholarship I’m applying for.”
Mom’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “I suppose classes are harmless enough, if you’ve got the time.”
Dad made a noncommittal sound and reached for more tea.
“It’s not just classes.” I should have stopped talking. “It’s a full program at Appalachian State. Our company is one of the sponsors and Jack suggested I try for it. If I get the scholarship, I could actually make this work.”
“Make what work?”
“Being an artist. Painting. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Yes, I remember.” Mom’s smile was thin. “You were always very creative. Drawing on everything, making messes with those paints. Do you remember, Anthony? We had to repaint her entire bedroom when she was twelve because she’d covered the walls in bright orange and pink.”
Dad nodded. “I remember.”
