I’d suggest getting one.
You’re not exactly helping.
*orders you a flask*
Astrid laughed. Oddly, this bizarre conversationwashelping a little. Her chest felt a tiny bit looser—loose enough to get a deep breath and put her foot back on the bottom step at least.
Baby steps.
Claire wants to know if you need us to come over, Delilah texted.
Astrid smiled. Leave it to Claire to offer reinforcement for Astrid’s long-standing Sunday brunch with her mother. For a second, Astrid considered it. She hated that interactions with her mother had become this convoluted. After Astrid called off her wedding last June—a wedding Isabel had poured tens of thousands of dollars into and invited everyone on god’s green earth she’d ever rubbed rich elbows with—their relationship had gone from companionable to frigid and cordial.
Because Isabel Parker-Green was nothing if not polite, even to her disappointing daughter.
That’s okay, Astrid texted back. She certainly didn’t want to subject her best friend to this horror. She didn’t even want Delilah to have to deal with it, and she barely liked Delilah.
Tell Claire thanks anyway, she typed.
Tits up,Delilah texted back.
Astrid rolled her eyes as she tucked her phone back into her bag, but she found herself actually sticking out her chest a little as sheclimbed the steps and all but flung herself into the house in one hurried motion.
Inside, the house was quiet and freezing cold, as always, the lavender-slash-bleach scent and white walls weirdly comforting and disarming at the same time. She meandered into the huge kitchen, all gleaming white and stainless steel, before spotting her mother on the back deck, fake-blond bob shining under the late morning sun as she sipped a golden mimosa.
“You’re late” were the first words out of her mouth when Astrid stepped outside.
“Sorry,” Astrid said, sliding into a chair across from Isabel. A full mimosa awaited her—thank god—and an incredible spread of eggs Benedict, fresh fruit, and buttery croissants Isabel would never eat in a million years.
“Work kept you?” Isabel asked, pouring herself some coffee from a stainless steel carafe.
“Yes,” Astrid lied. “It’s been busy lately.” Another lie. Though she had spent the entirety of her Saturday dissecting her design for the Everwood, searching for the flaws.Somethingin her plans had caused Jordan Everwood to frown and huff the way she had, but damned if Astrid could find it. Her current mockups were exactly what Pru and Simon had asked for. Clean. Modern. Elegant. Exactly what Astrid excelled at.
She glanced around, through the French doors that led back inside, taking in all themodernandelegantin her mother’s home. For a split second, a splinter of doubt worked its way under her skin—that sudden panicked feeling she got sometimes even in her ownmodernandeleganthouse, like she’d suddenly been dropped into a life she didn’t recognize—but she flicked the feeling away.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Isabel said, sitting back in her chair. She had on a huge pair of sunglasses, which was unnerving because Astrid couldn’t tell if she was being scrutinized or not.
Better to assume that she was and act accordingly.
“Lots of projects going on?” Isabel asked.
Astrid sipped her mimosa politely. “Quite a few,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Interesting designs.”
Isabel’s lips pursed. “Or is it just one project, which you seemed to have started off by publicly humiliating the client’s beloved granddaughter in the middle of downtown?”
Astrid froze, champagne flute cold against her mouth. Goddamn small towns. Her mother had spies everywhere.
Isabel sighed and spooned a heap of brightly colored berries onto her plate. “Astrid.”
There it was. The labored sigh paired with her name, which always indicated some calmly delivered dressing down was forthcoming, disguised cleverly in motherly concern.
“You know I want what’s best for you,” Isabel said.
“Of course,” Astrid replied, as was their custom. She kept her face impassive, but inside, her stomach felt like a writhing pit of snakes.
“If you want to be taken seriously, you have to act seriously.”
Nod.
