“You can’t hurry perfection,” she sang, then waved him off with the pencil. “Make yourself useful and grab my driving gloves from the closet. Second drawer from the left.”
“Driving gloves,” he muttered. “This isn’t the thirties.”
“UV rays are as real now as they were then, and I refuse to get age spots like those . . .”—she visibly cringed—“. . . elderly women. Oh, grab a pair of sunglasses while you’re in there. The Prada—no, let’s go with Versace.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Aditya. It’s one minor request. Considering I spent twenty-three hours in labor and the past seventeen years providing you with food and clothing and shelter, not to mention securing you a spot on a famous television show—”
Her ramblings faded as Adi stepped into the walk-in closet.
“Gross, gross, gross,” he whispered, feeling as if he were being suffocated by overpriced perfume, plastic dry cleaning bags, and consumerism. Half the clothes still had tags.
He found the drawer and opened it, revealing an array of accessories. One of the many phone cases was covered in faux zebra fur. Another, with pink and gold rhinestones in the shape of a dolphin, had an actual phone inside. “Seriously?” he muttered, tossing it back in with the others.
He grabbed a pair of gloves and a sunglasses case and slammed the drawer shut, heading back into the dressing room.
But Symphony was no longer there. He frowned, listening, and . . .yep. A blender. The soundtrack to his life.
Adi jogged down the stairs and into the kitchen, dropping the accessories onto the counter. Now, his mom was in tight jeans, high heels, and a glitzy off-the-shoulder top. Quite the outfit for a car ride.
She shot him an appraising look. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
He glanced down at his T-shirt and old jeans. “Yep.”
“Hmm.” Her disapproval was clear over the noise. “You’re still a bit scrawny.” She switched off the blender. “I put some Best Life packets in your bag. That’ll help you build some muscle.”
He stopped himself tugging self-consciously on his shirt. No matter how bad she made him feel, he was not going to drink the fake-food protein shakes his mom hawked on those informercials.
She poured the blender contents into a to-go cup while Adi tapped his fingers against his scrawny forearms. “Can we leave?”
“Ha! I had to beg you to go on this show, and now who’s desperate to get there?”
“When I make a commitment, I follow through.” Adi’s implication hung in the air.
Sure, when Adi was growing up, if Symphony was in a good mood she might take him to the zoo like she’d promised. Or it might end up being another audition, or an afternoon shopping at her favorite boutiques, or a coffee with some has-been celebrity. Adi had learned from a young age to never leave the house without a book in hand.
Symphony was too distracted to notice his comment as she reached for her sunglasses. “I saidVersace. Honestly. You are so useless.”
“Who cares? Let’s go.” He grabbed the car key as Symphony’s phone rang.
She gasped. “Oh! I have to take this.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s Sandra Fabinyi. That agent I was telling you about? She’s calling to chat aboutfuture prospects.” With a beatific smile, she strolled toward the pool deck, lifting the phone to her ear. “Symphony here.”
It was so painfully on-brand, Adi was surprised he hadn’t expected it.
He looked down at the key in his hand.
He technically didn’t have a driver’s license, and his mother refused to let him take the test using herbaby—the pink BMW she loved far more than her actual kid. If he borrowed it, she would be apoplectic.
What a shame.
Returning to the foyer, he pulled out the protein shake packets she’d stuffed in his duffel bag and dumped them on the floor.
Then, swinging the key ring on his finger, he sauntered out the door.
