“Oh, just in Seattle. Near Mount Baker.”
“Ah, I see,” she says, and I realize she probably has no idea where that is. Not if she lives in Bellevue. I’m aware that I’m making blatant assumptions about a family I hardly know, but the divide in Seattle—how Bellevue is considered the Beverly Hills of the Pacific Northwest—is well-known, especially among me and my friends. I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never ventured into Bellevue. I never had a reason to. Until now.
“Are those the children?” I ask, pointing to the portrait. Two children are sitting next to a fireplace prop. It looks too perfect to be a real fireplace. A baby, possibly a boy based on his blue onesie, and a toddler girl. They’re smiling at the camera lens. I look closely. It must be Bria. Nick mentioned that she was four. This must be an old picture. I thought it was one child. Not two. I’m not sure I can handle two. I am so under-qualified. Elijah was right.
Cecelia clears her throat and gestures for me to walk down the hallway with her, blatantly ignoring my question. I feel my palms start to sweat, and I wipe them on my dress.
“You have a younger brother, correct?” Cecelia asks.
“Yes, Elijah. He’s twelve.”
“Wonderful. You took care of him?”
“Yes. I’ve been taking care of him since he was born. My mother works full-time.”
“Ah, where does she work?” Cecelia’s eyes light up.
Crap.
“Umm… she’s in retail,” I say, avoiding a direct answer.
“And your father?”
“He works at Microsoft.”
I wasn’t lying, technically. He works for an IT company that is employed by Microsoft.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of my parents or what they do for a living. I respect that both of my parents work full-time to make sure Elijah and I have a comfortable life. Honestly, I just hate The Shoe Barn with a passion, and it’s easier to explain that my dad works at Microsoft rather than a company employed by Microsoft.
“Lovely,” she says, and she takes a seat at the dining room table, motioning for me to do the same.
I glance over at the kitchen, and it’s just as massive as the rest of the house. Our kitchen it tiny. We can barely fit two people in there. But this kitchen could probably fit twenty, comfortably.
She picks up a piece of paper, and her eyes scan it eagerly. I realize with horror that she’s printed my emails—the ones I wrote to Nick Wilder.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
“English literature?” she asks, eyeing me warmly.
Out of all the embarrassing things on that sheet of paper, that’s what she picks up on?
“Yes,” I say shyly. “I love books.”
“That’s wonderful. Bria loves books, too,” she says, still smiling at me. “What was your concentration?”
“British literature,” I say. “It sounds more impressive than it is.”
“Nonsense. I love Austen, Dickens, Orwell…”
“Who doesn’t?” I smile.
I get really uncomfortable whenever I talk about my major. I don’t know why. I guess I’m still waiting for administration to ask for my diploma back or to come running after me yelling, “Imposter, imposter!” College was really easy for me, and a lot of times I felt like I’d passed my classes by sheer good luck or some sort of administrative glitch. Besides, when you major in lit, people always ask if you’ve read their favorite book, and if you haven’t, it makes the conversation supremely awkward.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Evianna?” I choke on my spit as she asks that. She must notice my hesitation, because she continues. “I’m only asking because it’s a live-in position. Nick has strict rules about strangers in the house. That’s all.”
“Oh,” I say, slightly relieved. “No. Not anymore.” I gesture to the paper in her hands. Surely she’s read all about the embarrassing things I revealed about Dan.