I walk to the counter and pick it up, turn it to “Do Not Disturb,” then set the phone aside.
For a long minute, we say nothing. Finally, I look up at him. “Rochelle is my mother.”
He studies my expression, then nods. “Okay.”
I take a deep breath. “And I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Okay,” he says without hesitation.
It’s the perfect response.
“Cannon?”
“Yup.”
I look down at my wine. “Juno and I were going to order takeout. I was thinking Chinese.”
“Okay?” This time it’s a question.
“You can stay. Eat with us. I mean, if you want.” I look up.
“Okay.” This time it’s not a question. And it’s paired with a happy grin that makes my heart feel like flying.
19
MATT
Saturday Evening, September 30
You know how snobby people talk about the distinction between old money and new money, as though it’s a thing?
It’s definitely a thing.
I know, because I grew up surrounded by the latter.
Neither of my parents grew up rich. My mom’s solidly middle class from Boise. My dad’s the son of two schoolteachers in Oklahoma.
They met in New York when my mom was a flight attendant on a stopover and my dad was staying at the same hotel, celebrating getting his first job offer from an investment firm. (My knack for numbers comes straight from the old man.)
A one-night stand turned into a long-distance relationship, which turned into an engagement, which turned into the fanciest wedding Boise had ever seen, courtesy of my dad moving quickly up the Wall Street food chain.
They’d moved to New York, done the requisite big-city couple thing for a few years as my dad got more firmly established in the financial scene. My dad doesn’t talk much about those days, but my mom claims they were wildly in love, the kind of all-consuming love that makes you blind to reality.
Eventually, Mom’s biological clock started ticking (her words not mine, because I’d prefer never to think of it), and they’d moved to a Connecticut McMansion, i.e. a cookie-cutter, pristine new-construction house that looked almost identical to all their neighbors’.
I’d been born shortly after. Shortly after that, they moved to another McMansion, this one slightly larger. I’d spent most of my youth there, and when I left for college, they moved to yet another house, this one in a gated community and bigger than the other two combined, never mind that it was just the two of them.
And here’s where the “new money” cliché comes into play: my parents spend money just to spend it. Or maybe to let other people know they have it? I’ve never really been able to figure it out. They’ve never kept a car longer than a year. It always has to be the newest model. My mom gets a new Dior purse every season, plus a matching wallet. My dad doesn’t just have a Rolex, he collects them. And talks about them.
You think I’m being hard on them? Perhaps. After all, I never wanted for anything. My first car was a brand-new red BMW convertible. For my eighteenth birthday party, my parents flew twelve of my friends and me to Aspen for a ski trip.
The money doesn’t bother me. Neither does the way they spend it, not really. It’s the fact that somewhere along the line, they let money replace morals. And integrity.
Don’t believe me? Just wait and see.
“You might have mentioned that you weren’t going to say a single word on the drive up,” Sabrina says, breaking the silence in the car.
I glance over at the passenger side, not at all sure how I feel about her presence. On the one hand, I’m relieved for the company. On the other hand, I don’t know that I’m ready for anyone to see this part of my life. I’ve kept it private for so long.
“Sorry,” I say, drumming my thumbs on the steering wheel. “Spending time with both my parents together always makes me tense.”
“You don’t mention them much.”
“Probably for the same reason you don’t mention yours.”
She snorts and turns her head to look out the window. “I doubt it.”
I don’t push her. Someday, she’ll tell me all about Rochelle and the shadows in her eyes whenever someone mentions her childhood, but now is not the time.
“You look nice,” I say, turning down the radio as I take the exit ramp off the freeway.
“He says, an hour and a half after picking me up,” she teases.
“I was too busy trying to figure out if that dress is one I bought for you.”
She smiles enigmatically. “It might be.”
We stop at a red light, and I turn to her more fully, my gaze appreciating the way the slim-fitting dark-purple dress hugs her curves. “You think of me when you put it on?”
Her eyes narrow slightly, as though sensing the question I really want to ask: Will you think of me when you take it off?
Or better yet, Can I take it off?
She tilts her head to the stoplight. “Light’s green, Lothario.”
Her voice is a little bit huskier than before, and I grin, betting I’m not the only one who’s been suffering from her no-hookups rule.
There’s no time to dwell—or fantasize—about that, though. A couple of minutes later, I roll down the window and enter the key code that opens the gate to my parents’ cul-de-sac.
Sabrina whistles as we pass the first enormous house. “Very Stepford.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a reason that’s set that in Connecticut,” I grumble, lifting a hand in greeting toward one of my parents’ neighbors, who gives us a wave that’s both friendly and nosy as hell.
“Is it really?” she asks, looking over at me.
“Yup.”
“Huh,” she says thoughtfully. “I have to say, I sort of thought this lifestyle only existed in movies.”
I pull into my parents’ driveway. “In a few minutes, you’re going to wish it did.”
She laughs lightly. “It can’t be that bad.”
I nod at the Lexus that’s pulled into the driveway just ahead of us as a woman steps out of the driver’s side. “See her?”
“Yeah. That your mom?” Sabrina asks, her hand lifting to smooth her hair.
I’d grin at the atypically nervous gesture if my stomach wasn’t so knotted in dread. Sabrina’s about to see what my story’s really about, and it isn’t pretty.
“That’s my dad’s former assistant.”
“Oh.” Sabrina’s hand drops, and she undoes her seat belt. “She looks nice.”
I lift my hand to wave at the woman in tight jeans and a low-cut white sweater. “She’s also my father’s mistress.”
“What?” Sabrina’s head whips toward me, but I’m already pushing open the car door and stepping out.
“Matt, sweetie. It’s been too long.” She grins and beckons me forward, arms spread for a hug.
“Felicia, good to see you,” I say, kissing her cheek and embracing her.
Felicia’s hands find my shoulders, and she pulls back to study me. Then she smiles wider. “You look happy. Well, your shoulders are a bit tense, but your eyes are happy.”
Felicia’s gaze shifts to Sabrina, who’s stepped out of the car, looking composed instead of shell-shocked, God bless her.
“And this must be Sabrina. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I introduce the two women. “Felicia Levin, this is my girlfriend, Sabrina Cross.”
Sabrina extends a hand, but Felicia ignores it and goes in for a hug. “I’m so glad Matt’s found someone to help him settle down. We were all so tired of him moving from woman to woman with less care than he did swapping out his cuff links.”
It’s a bold accusation from someone who’s been having an affair with a married man for a couple dozen years, but Sabrina’s smile never wavers.
A tinny version of Beyoncé’s “Halo” interrupts the moment, and Felicia looks toward her still-open car door. “Oh, that’s my daughter calling. She’s getting married next month, and she’s a basket case. You guys go on inside, tell your parents I’ll be along shortly.” She trots back to her car in her platform sandals and leans in to grab her cell phone. “Bridget, honey. I’ve told you, we can always let the dress out a bit if we need to . . . No, you are not fat . . .”
I set an arm to Sabrina’s back, propelling her toward my parents’ front door. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can leave.
“Does your mom know?”
“Yup.”