“What you’ve been doing is no better than a criminal,” she says fiercely. “You’ve ruined your family’s reputation. I don’t know how Spencer is going to recover from this. Joshua, how could you?”
My mouth doesn’t work for a moment. I open and close it like a fish out of water. Once again, I’m tempted to kowtow to what my family wants. What my mother wants.
But I’m tired of hiding.
“Mother, I’ve been so secretive about this because I was worried that I was doing something abhorrent.”
“You were.”
“Mitzy,” my father cautions. My grandmother has a smirk on her face.
“He was,” my mother insists. “I will not have a son who does pornography.” She hisses the word.
“I was not doing pornography. Not exactly.”
“It involves sexual conduct.”
“Sure, it’s graphic content, but it’s not intended for anyone other than consenting adults.”
“You should have had the better judgment not to do it in the first place.” She stands and starts pacing. “There is absolutely no excuse for this behavior, and I will not have you admitting to the public it was you. Soon enough it will be a nightmare we can forget. I hope it hasn’t caused permanent damage to the campaign.”
I leap out of my seat. While I don’t want to hurt her, I’m done living my life by everyone else’s rules.
“It’s not a nightmare. It’s my goddamn body, a body I’m proud of. I treat it with care. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
She takes a step forward and holds out her hands. Treating me like a child, goddamn it. “You’re a beautiful boy, Joshua, but you don’t need to be so crass about it. We are not nudists.”
A laugh escapes me. “You go to museums all the time and stare at naked bodies, so I know on some level you appreciate the human form. There are dicks on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for fuck’s sake.”
“Joshua!” Her eyes widen as though I’ve murdered a family member. “That’s different. That’s art.”
“There’s not a fucking thing different about it. Several of Rodin’s sculptures feature erotic art, and you and dad not only paid money but probably waited in line to see The Kiss when you were in Paris last year.” I heave a sigh. “I don’t expect you to look at my blog, but please admit you find beauty in the human body.”
“Stop swearing at your mother.” She puts her head in her hands, tendrils from her dark bob escaping from behind her ears.
Gently, I take her hands in mine and catch her eyes. “People like what I create, but more importantly, I like what I create. Who cares what the rest of society thinks?”
“We live in society.” She sniffles. “You know doing the blog wasn’t the smartest thing to do during Spencer’s campaign.”
“My blog is well-done, popular, and lucrative. I love you, and I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, but I’m not going to apologize for who I am.”
From behind me, my grandma lets out a chuckle. “Looks like he’s just like you, Charles.”
I whip my head to look at him, then back to her. “What are you talking about?”
Mother rolls her eyes, and Grandma points to my dad. “He was arrested in college for streaking.”
“What?” How have I never heard this story? I want to burst out laughing, but I need to hear this.
“That was a very long time ago—” my mother starts, but Dad interrupts.
“My fraternity used to have contests where we’d streak across campus. I only got caught a few times.”
Now I laugh out loud. “You?”
He shrugs. “The Cartwrights don’t have a perfect reputation, even though your mother wants us to. Which means we don’t talk about how your Uncle David spent the night in jail for indecent exposure.”
“What did he do?”
“Urinated in a flower pot after a concert.”
“Sounds like something Drew would do,” I mutter.
“Well, the retractions are out,” my mother says, interrupting. “I don’t think you should now issue a statement changing it.”
“I think I should tell the truth,” I say. But then I pause, realizing how that would out Evie. And as much as I want to tell everyone to fuck off and mind their own business, I really don’t want to hurt my brother’s campaign. “Actually—”
“Honestly, Joshua. This is childish.”
But I’m not feeling ashamed. “Telling the truth is childish?”
“You know what I mean,” she says, clearly fed up now that she’s outnumbered three-to-one. “If you weren’t my own son—” She turns and glares at my dad. “You. You’re the corrupting influence here. This is your DNA at work.”
“I think it’s both of ours, Mitzy,” he says with a laugh, waggling his eyebrows. “You were there when it happened too. On that cold night when we took the trip to Boston.”
“Not sure I want to hear this,” I mutter.
“Me neither,” says my grandmother, who inspects her rings with a suppressed smile.
My father stands up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You needed to sow some wild oats or prove yourself or whatever. I’m sorry you felt so pressured. I know we can’t always do everything perfectly.”
“Yes. We can. We do. It’s our way.” My mother picks up a glass of water and takes a careful sip. “This is not right. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.” She gestures at us.
I snort. “When was the last time you had Kool-Aid?”
“I had it. Once.” She waves dismissively. “It was the eighties.”
Settling back in my chair, I wait for my parents to process everything. Finally, my mom pushes her hair behind her ear and sighs. “I refuse to think the worst of you, Joshua, but I’ll need some time to absorb this. Just… please behave until your brother’s election is over. I don’t want to have to lock you in the basement.”
Laughing, I nod. That basement is creepy as fuck. “A reasonable request.”
My dad settles back on the couch. “We’d like to meet your girl.”
“You already met her. At the Waller party.” I smile when I think of how beautiful she looked that night. “I’m in love with Evie, and I hope you extend the same kind of hospitality to her that you would to anyone else. If you give her a chance, I think you’ll find her to be smart and warm and rather adorable.”
My mother shakes her head. “You really need to give Tiffany another chance.”
A weary sigh leaves me. “Why? So she can cheat on me again?”
That gets her attention. “No! She cheated?”
I scrub my face, exhausted. “You all keep pushing her on me, but she treated me like shit. Think about that. Think about how much you really care for me to foist someone like that on me.”
“I always knew she wasn’t right for you,” quips my grandmother.
I can see my mother’s mode turn from anger directed toward me to mama bear warrior. Her eyes widen as she sputters, “That little bitch.”
“Mother! Don’t swear,” I joke.
“She doesn’t deserve you. And I will have a long talk with her mother.” She starts scribbling on a pad, scratching out names. “She is not included to any of our events from here on out.”
I laugh, all anger now out. “Thank God.”
“And we’ll have your little friend over for tea.”