“You’re underdressed.” I hear a deep, rough voice beside me and turn to see Davis, Ken’s one and only son. He’s a big shot lawyer in New York, already wildly successful at thirty two, thirty three? I’ve only spoken to him in passing, once at our parents’ wedding, and then once last Christmas, to which he had brought some gorgeous model who talked my mother’s ear off. Safe to say, she was less than thrilled. He’s giving me a knowing grin and I laugh for the first time since being here.
“Yes well, after years of having to order my dance uniforms, my mother still manages to forget my size.”
“Ah.” He takes a sip of the champagne flute he’s holding, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well knowing Aurélie I will prepare myself for World War III.” He winks, starting to walk toward his seat. “Let me know if you need back up.” He mocks a salute and I roll my eyes, wishing my mother sat us closer together.
None of my stepfathers in the past have had children; my mother made it a rule in her hunt for the perfect bachelor. I always assumed it was so she would be the only heir to their fortune. Maybe if I grew up with Davis, or had another sibling all these years I wouldn’t have leaned so hard on Will. Maybe having someone on my side the way Grant had Sloane would’ve made everything hurt a little less.
I find my seat and glance over at the young boy sitting beside me, the seat originally meant for Will. He’s hiding a Nintendo Switch under the table and I can’t help but remember the times Will would bring his Gameboy and we’d pass it back and forth under the veil of the table cloth. I bite the inside of my cheek, letting my eyes refocus on theplace setting in front of me only to meet the glare of my mother. Her eyes are pinched and I can tell she wants to scream. Can see the fire rising, like it might consume her.
“Genevieve,” she says, through clenched teeth. “Where is your dress?” She grips her champagne flute, her knuckles turning white. For a second I hope it breaks under her grip, shattering everywhere, causing a scene.
“It didn’t fit,” I say through my own teeth.
“How? I bought a size bigger. Your diet is no good.” She shakes her head, her lips turning downward and I see the people around us trying to look like they aren’t completely eavesdropping.
“Mother, I’ve been the same size for over five years…” My voice trembles, nausea roils in my stomach and my whole body feels warm. She squints her eyes, clearly annoyed I’m fighting back.
“This can’t be true. Look at you. You're bursting!” She shakes her head and I see the woman beside her widen her eyes to her husband. He gives me a pitying look and I instantly want to run, the room feeling too small, too crowded.
“That’s enough, Aurélie,” Ken says softly, resting his hand on her shoulder and I watch her jaw harden, the resentment she’s built up over the years toward me on full display.
“I am her mother—who else will tell her she is getting fat, if not me?” Her words have a bite and I fix my eyes on my silverware, refusing to let her see the tears now threatening to spill over. “They will not let you dance like this,” she hisses. “Your entire career will be taken from you like that.” She snaps loudly enough that a hush falls over our half of the dining table, and I feel the rage building, rage I’ve had buried inside me all these years. For all the timesshe pretended my dad didn’t exist. Used these men no matter if they were good or not, for their wealth and status. Let men like Gary ogle me and do nothing to protect me, for fear they may stop funneling the never ending stream of cash she seemed to always have at her disposal.
“Is that what happened to you?” My voice is quiet but clear. She stares at me for a second, not quite hearing.
“What?” Her posture is tense, anger radiating from her.
“Is that what happened toyou? Why you seem to be living vicariously through your daughter? You blame me, don’t you? You got pregnant and your career ended.” Shock reverberates through her, and I watch Ken softly squeeze her shoulder, warning her to pull back, to not escalate this situation further.
She pushes out of her chair, charging upward, her finger pointing down at me the way it did when I was a child. “You will never be as good as I was.” Her voice is fierce, eyes clouding with angry tears. “You're ungrateful and spoiled. You’ve never had to work for it and after all I’ve done for you, you embarrass me like this.” Her accent is thick, jumbling the words.
“Allyou’vedone for me? I think you're confusing yourself with Robert, or Tony. Maybe Gary? Oh, and now Ken, of course!” Fire burns my throat, my fury a thick fog that has me forgetting about the prying eyes surrounding us.
“You little bitch,” she seethes, any trace of maternal instinct gone.
“Aurélie! Sit!” Ken commands firmly and, like she’s just noticing, she looks around at all the eyes now trained on where she’s standing.
Hot tears stream down my face as my mother’s gaze shoots daggers at me.
“Go,” she says, nodding toward the hallway to myroom. “You don’t need the calories.” Her eyes are narrowed and I push back my chair.
The walk to my room is quick. I throw on some workout gear, not bothering to wash the smeared mascara from my face. I grab a pair of headphones and make my way to Ken's home gym. The need to get the anger still radiating out of me, without shattering the nearest glass object, becomes more necessary by the second. I enter the state of the art gym and settle on the mirrored wall to the far left. My mother always gets a bar installed when she moves into a new home—it’s the one thing I’ve come to count on with the constant bouncing from house to house. I used to think it was to make me feel more at home but I’ve realized that every nice thing my mother does is entwined with her need for me to be better, thinner, more focused on my career as a dancer.
I sit in front of the mirror, trying to stretch out and yet, I feel frozen. The relentless need to cry is like a barrier, not allowing my limbs to go through the motions of warming up. I pick up my phone, trying to find a song that matches my mood. There's about fifty missed texts in our new group chat but I don’t have the energy to read through them. Instead, I lay on my back and begin looking through old conversations with Grant.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. It’s actually become sort of a safety net for me. Knowing that there is an artifact of what we were. Proof that I meant something to him. An ache pinches at the base of my heart as I get to the bottom and see my name over and over again. Multiple unanswered texts begging for a response or at leastacknowledgement. Even a thumbs up emoji would keep me from the constant downward spiral that just hearing his name sends me into. I begin to type, like I’ve done for the past few weeks. Usually it’s a passage about my day or some insane story Jean told me. I always delete them. It helps though. To just let it out. Pretend like we are still a we.
Have I told you lately how much I hate going home? Thanksgiving should be canceled. Christmas too. Honestly at this point I don’t even know what I’m looking forward to.
I sigh. Staring at the letters before hitting the back button.
I miss you.
Tears fill my eyes and my throat aches. I move my thumb to hit the back button and just as I’m about to click it a weight drops on the other side of the room, the loud thump causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. I sit up shutting my eyes, trying to steady myself, and when I glance back at my phone, my stomach drops.
Delivered
Shit. Shit. Shit.
