“Does she care?”
“If she does, she’d be a hypocrite. She carried on with my Little League coach for years before switching to my history tutor. Then it was one of my dad’s golf buddies, and I’m pretty sure there was a pool boy in there somewhere.”
Sabrina looks up at me as I ring the doorbell, and I stand very still, very tense, bracing for the questions, the judgment, the horror at the salacious shallowness I grew up in.
“Cannon.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. “Yeah?”
She leans toward me slightly and whispers, “You had a history tutor?”
I let out a startled laugh. Her response is so unexpected and so fucking perfect that I do the only thing I can do.
I bend my head to hers and kiss her.
20
SABRINA
Saturday Evening, September 30
Matt’s mouth is warm and firm on mine, and any thought I have to remind him we’re no longer hooking up goes out the window when his hand gently cups the back of my head, pulling me closer.
His lips nudge mine apart, and mine respond, welcoming his kiss as though I’m made for it. Made for kissing him.
Matt’s tongue touches mine, and a little moan slips out . . .
Just as the front door opens.
“Oh! Oh my!”
I push away from Matt, baffled by the heat flooding my cheeks. Oh, this is what blushing feels like. I haven’t felt it in . . . forever.
I turn to find a thin blonde woman grinning at me. “Matthew Cannon, I haven’t seen you embarrass a girl like this since you took Brianne Ross to prom and whispered something in her ear that made her blush redder than tomato sauce.”
I turn to Matt. “What’d you whisper?”
Matt’s mother lets out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I can see why he likes you. You’re Sabrina, obviously. And I’m Maureen Cannon, Matt’s mother, obviously.”
Actually, there’s really nothing obvious about it, considering I met a woman in the driveway who acted just as motherly toward Matt. But I don’t say this. Obviously.
“Mother,” Matt says, bending to kiss his mom’s cheek as he steps inside. “Good to see you.”
She wraps her arms around him and gives a quick squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here. Okay, Sabrina, come in, come in. Get your coat off, and let’s get you a drink.”
“Felicia’s here,” Matt says, helping me out of my trench coat. “Bridget called, so she’ll be in in a minute.”
“Oh, poor Bridget,” Maureen says with a regretful sigh as she reaches out to take my coat from Matt. She looks at me. “Poor thing’s put on a good amount of weight just before the wedding.”
“Mom.” Matt’s voice is gently chiding.
“I don’t say it to be mean!” Maureen insists. “She can’t help she has her mother’s body type.”
It’s a catty little jab, to be sure, but there doesn’t seem to be much malice behind it. Instead it’s like the way I’ve heard competitive sisters talk about one another—little put-downs here and there to lift their own egos but no real venom. Almost as though she’s simply resigned to the other woman’s presence at family dinners.
Maureen turns her head slightly toward a hallway on her right. “Gary! Your son’s here!”
A masculine voice replies immediately. “Matt! Get in here a sec—I want to show you something.”
Matt gives me an apologetic look. “He has a new laptop. Ten bucks says he doesn’t want to show me anything, just ask me how to use it, all while pretending he’s teaching me.”
I smile to reassure him I’ll be fine with his mother. “Hopefully you’re better with computers than history.”
Maureen lets out a laugh as Matt makes a ha-ha face and heads down the hall to wherever his father is.
“Told you about that, did he?” Maureen says as she motions for me to follow her. “I’d forgotten all about that. It was the funniest thing seeing his face when he realized he’d gotten a C in British history. I thought he was going to pass out.”
“His first C?”
She rolls her eyes. “First anything that wasn’t an A plus. Though he always had to work a bit harder on anything that wasn’t numbers. He’s like his dad that way. Calculator for a brain, but when it comes to reading and writing, he’s merely average.”
“Heard that!” Matt calls from somewhere.
“Sit, sit,” his mom says, ignoring her son as she leads me into a fussily decorated living room. “What can I get you to drink? Wine, cocktail, soda?”
“White wine would be great,” I say, setting my purse on a bench by the door. “You have a beautiful home.”
I say it to be polite more than anything. It’s not that the Cannon home isn’t beautiful, it’s just . . . intense.
The floor in the entryway is white marble, the chandelier the size of a small car. And maybe I’ve just grown used to the minimalist decor of most New York apartments, but there seems to be stuff everywhere. Pretty stuff—gorgeous centerpieces, tall vases, fresh flowers, ornate boxes, gold-framed art on the walls.
But still . . . stuff.
I wouldn’t go so far as to call the home stifling, but I can’t imagine living here. Hell, for that matter, I can’t imagine Matt living here. I haven’t put much thought into Matt’s background before, but I definitely wouldn’t have pictured this. Not the lavishness, and certainly not the apparently open nature of his parents’ marriage.
It provides a little glimpse into the man that I haven’t seen before, and I’m not at all sure what to do with the new information. I know only that the tense man who picked me up this evening is nothing like the devil-may-care charmer I’ve known for years. I can’t help but wonder which is the real Matt.
I wonder if he even knows.
It’s hard to believe the guy’s turned out as normal as he has, though I suppose his parents’ choices did leave a lasting mark: his wariness of all things relationships and marriage.
“So, I hear from Matt you guys met through a mutual friend,” Maureen says, coming back with a glass of white wine for each of us and patting the seat next to her on a white-and-gold love seat.
I sit beside her and cross my legs. “Yes. I grew up with one of his coworkers.”
“Ian, right?”
I nod.
“He’s a handsome one. Well, so is that Kennedy, though his parents are somewhat standoffish. Especially his mother. Did you know, we were at the same fund-raiser as they were a couple years ago, and I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other. But let me tell you, that woman . . .”
I tune her out as she prattles on about the evils of Kennedy’s mother, interjecting only the occasional nod and “mm-hmm.”
It’s not that Maureen Cannon is a bad woman. She’s friendly and seems to truly adore her son. But she’s also self-absorbed, a bit gossipy, and, even though it’s none of my business, I just can’t fully embrace a woman who cheats on her husband.
Even if he cheats on her as well.
Poor Matt. I wonder how long he’s known. He mentioned his mom sleeping with his Little League coach, and I can only hope he learned about it long after the fact. It’d be a hell of a thing for a kid to grow up with.
My mother slept around plenty as well, but at least she had the good sense never to get married.
“I’m sorry, I just hijacked our entire conversation,” Maureen says, touching my arm. “Tell me about you. I confess I looked you up, but I didn’t learn much about your people.”
My people?
My tolerance for Maureen Cannon dips a tiny bit lower. I suppose on some level, I should be relieved that she’s bought the facade I’ve built for myself. That she sees me as one of them.
I’m not surprised. I’ve made darn sure people see exactly what I want them to see: a polished, poised, successful woman who wears the right clothes, knows the right people, makes the right small talk.
Still, tonight, the whole thing feels vaguely distasteful. Perhaps because I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t be nearly as welcoming if she knew my real background.
“I’m from Philadelphia.” I take a sip of my wine.
“Oh, Philly!” she says with fake delight. “Do you go back often?”
“No.”
“So your family . . . Are they no longer—”