“I’m good, thanks.” She smiled up at me, and it made all the drama with Lauren worthit.
“Hi, Dad.” I held up my wine glass in greeting.
“Hi, Matilda, how are you?” His voice was devoid of affection but held no malice. Our relationship had always been a cold, barren landscape. I’d learned as a child that my father wasn’t the affectionate type—and as adults, the only time we spoke to or saw each other was at monthly family dinners.
“Yeah, good, thanks. How about you?”
His eyes flickered to my mother, a subtle yet telling sign that they were mid-disagreement—probably about him working away again. I’d seen this dance so many times before that I inhaled and braced myself for an evening of mediating.
“Fine, thanks.” He sipped his wine and offered a closed-mouth smile.
“Mum.” I scanned the room, desperate for something to break the suffocating silence. “Dinner looks lovely. What are we having?” Small plates, completely devoid of any beige goodness, cluttered the table—no carbs in this household.
“It was from the cookbook your sister bought me for Christmas. It doesn’t have any bad ingredients in it.” I fought the urge to sigh. “I haven’t had a good week, so I wanted something healthy.”
My mum’s version of “not having a good week” was probablyhaving a latte instead of an Americano. I swear, for the first twenty years of my life, I thought I’d put on ten pounds if I drank semi-skimmed milk. If my mother ever saw the monstrous drinks Luca bought me most days, she’d send me a referral link to the premium membership of MyFitnessPal faster than you could say “diet.”
“It’s just roasted Mediterranean vegetables with garlic, oregano, and thyme. I seasoned the chicken with the same and roasted it.”
“In oil?” My sister’s lips curved in distaste as she glared at the plates on the table. Mum scoffed as she dished out food for usall.
“Of course not. Just chicken stock.” Lauren looked pleased and took a plate fromher.
The conversation continued around recipes and cooking. I drummed my fingers on the table, each of their words rattling through me and leaving behind a trail of frustration.
My forced smile felt suffocating.
“Are you going to say anything, Gerald?” Mum demanded, glaring at him across the table. He looked up from his plate. Taylor kept her head down, spearing some food on her fork.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Whatever you want to say.” My mother’s cutlery clattered to her plate.
“I don’t have anything to say, Julia.” He put a piece of pepper in his mouth and chewed.
“That’s the problem, isn’tit?”
“Can we not argue today, please?” I mediated. Mum’s mouth opened to retaliate, but I turned to my father and smiled. “How’s work going, Dad?”
“Good. We have a conference in South Africa next week, so I’ll be out of town, but it’s an excellent opportunity for us, so we can’t miss it.” He looked pointedly at my mother, who thinned her lips.
As our father and Lauren’s ex-husband both worked for aprivate bank, they often traveled together on business. They saw their colleagues a hell of a lot more than they saw their families.
“That will be nice,” I said, sliding a piece of chicken onto my fork. “Will your whole teamgo?”
“Just me this time.” His eyes flickered to my mother.
“I was just asking Matilda about her relationship with Luca Vasvault before dinner.” Lauren changed the subject.
Cutlery scraped across plates, and I lifted my gaze to glare at Lauren across the table.
Taylor’s head spun to me, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oh my god. Are you together? Everyone at school is talking aboutit.”
“That kiss wassomething,wasn’t it, Matilda?” Lauren set her fork on her half-eaten plate, smirking.
“It sure was.” My words sliced through the air with a sharpness I hadn’t intended but couldn’t find it within myself to regret. Lauren’s reaction was immediate—a subtle glint dancing in her eyes that sent a chill down my spine.
“So, what’s going on with you two, then?”
