It wasn’t that Vivian didn’t believe Bryn. The problem was that she did. That she knew what it meant to meet fans. To be gawked at and grabbed at with hands and eyes and devouring energy.
“You should go,” Vivian decided. “That would be wonderful exposure for you.”
Vivian didn’t need to say anything else for Bryn to drop the subject. For her to focus on the road ahead. And for Vivian to focus on the more present terror: Bryn’s entire family waiting to meet her.
Gravel crunching under tires was louder than Vivian’s racing pulse. A cute little ranch-style house sat at the center of acres of land, though in the dark, Vivian couldn’t tell what kinds of trees were scattered around the property. Maybe she wouldn’t know in the daylight either.
She curled her clammy fingers into fists and then unclenched them again. A dozen cars were parked haphazardly all over both sides of the gravel driveway.
“I thought birthday dinner was just your family,” she managed, mouth as dry as her lower back was damp.
“It is,” Bryn agreed. “It’s just my parents, two aunts, three uncles.” She turned off the path and rolled onto the grass next to a dusty SUV. “Between them, I have eight cousins. And four of them have had kids. My grandparents drove down from Orlando. The only retirees to go North,” she joked to herself. “My brother’s flight was delayed, but he’ll be here with his girlfriend and her kid.”
Vivian stopped trying to do the math. The more people she counted, the more Vivian Taylor wanted to straighten her spine. Wanted to inhabit her body and take over her mouth. She resisted. For Bryn, she fought the intense instinct to retreat.
“I can still take you home,” Bryn said after parking. She turned to Vivian, blue eyes bleeding sincerity even in the dark. “No one will be mad.” She took one of Vivian’s hands in hers and squeezed it tight. “You don’t have to do this for me. I swear?—”
“I know,” she agreed.But I need to do it for me, she thought.
Entering something like the stages of grief while she walked toward Bryn’s childhood home with a bottle of wine under one arm and Bryn’s light grasp on the other, Vivian burned through disbelief pretty fast. Denial didn’t stand a chance when the smell of barbecue wafted in the air and music mixed with the discordant sound of distant conversation.
Anger, hot and sharp, burned in Vivian’s chest. She should be able to do this. Should be able to walk into someone’s house without forgetting what the fuck she used to do with her hands. Every part of her body felt like it had been replaced with something slightly too small or too big. She was awkward and on the very edge of bolting when she bargained with herself straight into depression.
This was just one night. A single disastrous night and Bryn would see that she’d been right. That they only fit together when they didn’t let any of the real world in. That they were too different to have any hope of success.
She was searching for acceptance when the worn wooden front door swung out, and a woman who looked like an older, full-figured version of Bryn appeared wearing a 1950’s housewife dress. A dozen people behind her, all dressed in their Sunday best, stopped talking at once.
“Mom, what the hell are you wearing?” Bryn asked before leading Vivian inside a house that smelled like it had just been thoroughly cleaned. The trace chemicals hid just under the scented Yankee candle and vat of potpourri on the console table near the door.
“Vivian, hello. My name is Sandy. I’m Bryn’s mother,” she said like she’d practiced the introduction and wouldn’t be thrown by Bryn having already identified her.
A man in a short-sleeved shirt and tie appeared behind her. “Ms. del Castillo, hello.”
“Dad, just call her Vivian,” Bryn interrupted his greeting.
He was also undeterred. “My name is Peter. I’m Bryn’s father. Please come in, won’t you?” He talked in the same practiced tone, sweat gathering at his temples.
“Father?” Bryn’s laugh was a nervous gurgle in her flushing throat.
Two teenage boys dressed in Dockers and polos, like they sold cars on the weekend, were immediately whisked out of their seats. Sandy gestured toward one of the vacated armchairs at the end of the couch where too many people were crammed together.
“Have a seat,” Sandy said, freckled face flushing to match the red of her hair. “We have some hors d’oeuvres before dinner is served.”
“Mom, why are you talking like that?”
“Peter, get the caviar,” Sandy whispered as if Vivian might not hear her from a foot away.
When they disappeared into the kitchen, Bryn was left with a bewildered expression while she stared at her entire family silently staring back at them. She leaned over to Vivian and muttered, “Tell me if you start to feel weird. There might be a gas leak.”
Vivian didn’t have a chance to respond before a tray appeared on the coffee table. Covered in ice, the tray held a tin of caviar, crème fraîche, and tiny blinis. The entirety of Bryn’s family stared at her like she was a queen judging a tithe.
“Ribs are ready!” A man, dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, slid open the back door. He carried in a huge aluminum pan that brought with it the most incredible smell.
“Kevin,” Sandy hissed. “I told you not to make the ribs. We are having cedar-plank salmon.”
“Hi, Vivian. I’m Bryn’s Uncle Kevin.” He extended the hand not holding the pan. “You’re famous and we’ve all forgotten how the hell to act like regular people.” Vivian slid her hand into his calloused one. “They just want to make a good impression because Bryn likes you so much. I swear, they’re not usually doing…” He looked at his family. “Whatever this Stepford impression is.” He laughed. “Bryn is the only one with acting chops, as you can see.”
“Well, this is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever experienced in my life,” Bryn decided aloud.
