5
MY FIRST INSTINCT ISto look for the camera, like I’m back onLovedBy.
My roller bag is still in the foyer, and for an instant, I think about running. Back to the Jeep, back to Atlanta, all the way back to LA. I might not have an apartment at the moment, but I could go live in my storage unit. Or on Sybil’s couch. Anywhere but here.
My mom pulls free of the hug and must catch the look of near terror on my face. Understanding, or maybe sympathy, flashes briefly across her face, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “Nikki, can you say hello to Cara, please? Make sure she feels welcome?”
Make sureCarafeels welcome? Why aren’t they pushing her out of the house and salting the earth behind her? Did they all know she was coming? How did no one think to tell me, to warn me? A scream claws its way up from stomach and through my rib cage, but I choke it down once it reaches my throat.
“Cara,” I force myself to say. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” she says, not actually making eye contact with me. “I wasreallylooking forward to it!” It’s probably thefakest-sounding enthusiasm I’ve ever heard, and that’s coming from me. I’ve heardplentyof fake niceties in my life.
I want to whirl on my family and demand an explanation for all this, but I can’t—not with my mom standing there with her “don’t you dare” eyes fixed on me. Besides, this is not my first rodeo. I’ve seen enough girl fights onLovedByto know that if I cause a scene now, I’ll be the villain. So I bottle up the betrayal and the urge to bite Cara’s head off and lean into every Good Southern Girl’s secret weapon: passive-aggressive charm.
“I wish I’d known you were coming!” I say, giving her a big, theatrical smile, one that physically hurts my face. “You really love last-minutesurprises, don’t you!”
I widen the grin another notch and see Cara’s own smile falter slightly. She knows exactly what I mean. The last time this girl “surprised” me, it was by coming out of the woodwork to reveal she’d secretly been dating my fiancé.
An awkward silence descends. Then Cara clears her throat, her eyes raking over me. “That’ssucha cute short set, by the way. Is it from your clothing line?”
I glance down, remembering the car oil stains. Wow. The cattiness of that comment is next level, and we’ve literally just met. I guess Cara knows the Good Southern Girl’s tricks too.
“Aw, this is just a beta. But bless your heart, you’re too sweet,” I say. Then I turn away from her decisively. “Can I get everyone something to drink?” Any excuse to leave the room would do. I need to process. I need to… get the heck out of here.
The question spurs my mom into action, and she herds Cara and Cooper out to the porch where my dad is standing guard near his smoker. In all the commotion, I still haven’t had a chance to say hello to him.
“There’s some champagne in the fridge, hon,” my mom calls back to me, before I get the chance.
Champagne?That seems a little much. Since when did my parents start stocking champagne in the fridge?
“Sure!”
I allow myself three deep, calming breaths alone in the kitchen. What is going on, why have I been ambushed, why is this woman who is the face of the worst scandal of my life suddenly herein my home?
Okay, so they aren’t very calming breaths after all. I start assembling a tray of champagne flutes. Giving myself an immediate task is keeping me from totally losing my shit, and I am a master of not losing my shit, especially around this many people.Especiallyaround family.
Sure enough, in the fridge are six bottles of champagne. My eyes narrow. I pull two out and fill a glass for each of the adults, tucking the remaining half-full bottle back in the fridge. My grip on the tray is tight.
On the porch, the breeze carries the mingled smells of pine, lake water, and grilling charcoal. I walk down the wide wooden steps to the stone patio, where Pete’s husband, Tripp, stands beside my dad at the smoker. Tripp, with his dark skin and even darker hair, stands nearly six inches taller than my dad, who is no shrimp himself, and seems to be consulting him on the temperature of the
pork.
“Hey, Daddy.” I lean over to give my father a kiss on the cheek and am engulfed by the smell of woodsmoke. The familiarity of it settles my panicky, confused energy at least a little bit.
“Good to have you home, kiddo.”
“Here, let me help you with those,” Tripp says to me, turningaway from the smoker and taking a few flutes of champagne from the tray to help pass them out.
Linney rejoins the group with Anna Carol in a lopsided tiara and William wrapped in a fluffy yellow towel, looking unhappy to be out of the water.
“Hi, Aunt Nikki,” he says glumly.
“Hey, buddy,” I say back sympathetically. He looks about as miserable as I feel.
Everyone gathers on the porch—the kids scrambling into the wooden rocking chairs with Linney standing between them, Pete and Tripp leaning against the railing with their backs to the lake. Dad comes over to give Mom a peck on the cheek as they stand near the doors to the house with Cara and Cooper. I sit on the steps down to the lawn—putting as much space between myself and the happy couple as I can.
Once everyone has a glass of champagne, Cooper lifts his, like he’s about to make a toast.
