Ivy sucks in her cheeks before her features smooth out. She claps her hands, choosing to ignore her son’s statement. “Let’s eat!”
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Stevie
Ihold on to Garrick’s hand under the table during the meal, and I’m on a countdown to when we can leave. Pepper makes polite conversation with me from across the table while Garrick and Randall talk sports, music, and wine. She asks me about college and my jobs, and she seems nice and genuinely interested, but I don’t know if it’s all a front. I ask her about her poli-sci major and her plans for the future, and she’s animated and bubbly when discussing following her father into politics.
Ivy’s heated glare sits firmly on my shoulders, and after a while, and probably too much champagne, I decide to challenge her on it. “Do I have something on my face?” I ask, sitting up straight in my chair and angling my body so I’m looking Garrick’s mother straight in the eye. “Or perhaps you’re staring at me nonstop because you’d like to know where I get my hair done?” I smooth my hand over my long glossy locks. “If you’re considering a hair color change, I can highly recommend red. It’s certainly classier and less common than blonde.” I keep a sweet smile affixed to my face the entire time I’m insulting her, purposely focusing on her bottled-blonde shade. “Though mine is natural and almost impossible to replicate with a dye.”
“I have never had any desire to color my hair red,” she drawls, lifting her wineglass and stabbing me with a sharp look. “Even less so now.” She guzzles her wine while I count that a win.
Then she pointedly steers the conversation at the table to politics, purely to end the discussion I’m having with Pepper and most likely to embarrass me. As soon as the conversation turns political, I’m out of my comfort zone and forced to remain quiet because I can’t contribute anything. Ivy wastes no opportunity to take a potshot at me, chipping away at my bravery, and I wonder how much more of this I can withstand.
Garrick growls at his mother, constantly intervening to shut her up. Until the next time, and we do it all over again.
It’s exhausting, and I’m slowly losing the will to live.
The array of silverware on the table confuses me along with the convoluted menu consisting of amuse-bouche, soup, scallops, crab claws, and caviar to start and lobster as the main event with a host of different accompaniments. Ivy laughs when I pick up the wrong utensil and laughs again when Garrick subtly points out the silverware to use.
You just can’t win with that bitch.
“We regularly have dinner at Dad and Dawn’s,” Garrick says, angrily forking some gratin potatoes on his plate in between shooting contemptuous looks at his mother. “They don’t feel the need for all of these silly trappings. This is supposed to be a family dinner. We’re not at some stuffy social event, and I don’t see why there is a need for all this pomp and ceremony or your attempts to belittle my girlfriend. I’m running on limited patience, Mother, and I’d advise you to choose your words carefully. Unless your plan is to permanently drive a stake through the heart of our relationship? In which case, carry on and see what happens.”
“Again with the dramatics,” Ivy murmurs, looking like she wishes she could smother me in my sleep. “Everyone, eat.” She waves her hands around. “The food is getting cold.”
Her go-to MO seems to be ignoring shit she doesn’t like and pretending it wasn’t said. She truly is a piece of work.
Garrick spends the rest of dinner defending me, glowering at his mother, and whispering we can leave at regular intervals. I want to go, but I’ve come this far. I can make it until the end of dinner. Then I’m getting out of here, and I’m never coming back.
I pick at my food, appetite slaughtered thanks to the tension and stiltedness in the room. I miss good old-fashioned turkey, green beans, and mashed potatoes, and I wish I had turned down this invite and gone to my nana’s. Memories of previous Thanksgiving dinners, surrounded by good company, traditional food, delicious wine, tons of laughter, and nonstop music surges to the forefront of my mind, adding to my misery.
Discussion among the women turns to haute couture while we’re awaiting dessert, and I’m still out of my depth. “Your dress is pretty, Stevie,” Ivy says, and I’m instantly on high alert. “Even I might be tempted to wear last season if I found something that complimented my hair so well. It must be challenging finding vibrant clothes that don’t clash with the red.”
“I don’t have that problem, and Garrick loves my hair,” I retort, struggling to keep the sickly-sweet smile on face as I drain my wine.
I ditched restraint the second I sat at this table. Right now, alcohol is getting me through this ordeal, and I couldn’t give a flying fuck what might come out of my mouth. I am beyond caring. There is no way of salvaging anything with Garrick’s mother, and I’m not going to sit here and take her bullshit. “He’s always finding ways to touch it.” I bite my lip and wear my most suggestive expression as I blatantly eye fuck my boyfriend. “Especially in the bedroom. Isn’t that right, babe?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Garrick doesn’t let me down, gently fisting a hand in my hair, tipping my head back, and bringing his lips to mine. Ivy lets out a shriek of outrage as we kiss in front of everyone at the table, and I giggle against Garrick’s lips. When we have pushed it enough, we break apart, and I rest my head on his shoulder as he plays with strands of my hair. “Your hair is stunning, like every part of you,” he loyally supplies.
I hate he must choose between me and his mother, but she’s the one who forced this, not me.
“That’s enough.” Ivy slams her clenched fist down on the table. “I won’t have any more disrespectful behavior at the dinner table.”
“Perhaps you should excuse yourself then,” I say, unable to help myself.
Surprised shock splays across Cristelle’s face while Ivy stares at me with barely concealed hatred. Garrick laughs and makes a point of lacing his fingers through mine on top of the table. The governor quietly sips his wine while Randall stares abjectly into space, looking like he wishes he could be zapped out of here—I can relate—and Pepper wears a worried frown as she looks at Garrick.
Winston chuckles. “You really need to remove that stick up your ass, Ivy.” He waves his wineglass in her direction, spilling ruby-red liquid all over the white tablecloth. “Leave the girl alone.” Winston tilts his head to look at me, planting his large hand down on my thigh under the table.
I jump, instantly removing it before Garrick or Ivy notices.
“I like your dress,” Winston adds, slurring his words and hiccupping.
He’s been knocking the wine and champagne back like it’s going out of fashion. Not that I’m one to talk. Although alcohol has loosened my tongue, I think I’m too angry to get drunk. Even though he’s a bit of a letch, I would still take pervy Winston over evil-bitch Ivy any day. And honestly? If I was dating that witch, I’d be permanently drunk.
“Especially the front.” Winston’s eyes latch on to my cleavage, and it’s not the first time.
I take back what I just said.
