She sits on the end of my bed, reading it. From my swiveling desk chair I tap my forehead like a mind reader. “Wait—don’t tell me. Because my mother couldn’t stop herself from telling your mother we’re here—it’s a message from her. And we’ve been summoned to your house for dinner tonight.”
Kennedy sighs and shows me her phone. “You should take your act to Vegas—you’ll be a hit.”
Then she throws herself back onto my bed and blows a frustrated raspberry at the ceiling.
? ? ?
Dinner at the Randolphs’ is a formal affair. The men wear suits, the ladies cocktail dresses. I had appropriate attire at my parents’, and my mother loaned Kennedy a little black dress she picked up years ago in Paris. I’ll forever be grateful that it still had the tags on—that my mother never wore it. Otherwise, the massive erection it caused when Kennedy walked out of the dressing room could’ve been weird.
The dining room table is long enough to seat thirty and fully appointed. Without the classical music playing in the background, the room would’ve been awkwardly silent through the first three courses.
Because our parents aren’t talking—they’re all just kind of watching us. Expectantly.
Finally, Kennedy’s father attempts normal conversation.
“How’s your Nevada case coming along, princess?”
I frown at her and whisper, “He has a nickname for you? Why does he get to have a nickname and I don’t?”
“Not now, Brent.”
Begrudgingly, I let it go. But she can bet her sweet ass we’ll be talking later—even if I have to tie her to the bed until the discussion reaches its full culmination. It’s possible I’m just looking for an excuse to tie her to a bed.
“It’s going well. I’m confident I’ll be able to secure a second conviction.”
Mitzy clears her throat, signaling that the observation portion of the evening is complete—and the examination segment will now commence.
“Yes, that’s all very nice, Kennedy. But is there anything you would like to tell us? An announcement, perhaps, that it would behoove you to share?”
Kennedy blinks like a blond Kewpie doll. “Nothing comes to mind, no.”
Mitzy throws down her linen napkin and narrows her eyes at her daughter, like a sharp-clawed hawk. “I was at the Prince benefit, young lady. I saw Brent whisk you away after David’s tawdry proposal. So, what I’d like to know—what I believe all of us here are entitled to know—is what exactly is going on between the two of you?”
The cross-examination force is strong in Kennedy’s family. Mitzy Randolph would’ve made a kick-ass attorney.
“Brent and I are . . . friends.”
And fuck me, the benefits are fantastic.
Mitzy huffs. “Don’t be coy, Kennedy—you’re not good at it.”
And I get why Kennedy’s reluctant to share with her mother. It’s like that scene from the original cartoon movie Cinderella. When Cinderella makes her own pink dress from scratch, and her bitchy stepsisters tear it to pieces. For as long as I’ve known her, there’s not a single aspect of Kennedy’s life that Mitzy wasn’t waiting to rip to shreds.
But this’ll be different. Kennedy has me now.
I throw my own napkin down, reach over the table, and take Kennedy’s hand. “The truth, Mrs. Randolph, is Kennedy and I are dating. We’re seeing how things go . . . enjoying each other’s company. Beyond that, it is really none of your business.”
Kennedy is looking at me like I’m the prince that just woke her with a kiss, found her glass slipper, took her on a flying carpet ride, and defeated the evil witch.
And we get lost for a moment—just looking at each other.
Until my mother squeals loud enough to shatter the crystal glasses on the table. She claps her hands together. “You were right, Mitzy! You were so very right!”
“I told you, Kitty. Just like we planned!”
Kennedy frowns. “What do you mean, like you planned?”
And like the villain from a Batman comic, Mitzy reveals her devious scheme.
“You’re thirty-two years old, Kennedy; you obviously weren’t going to get yourself married. Kitty and I knew that, once we orchestrated your and Brent’s reunion, things would progress. And look how perfect it’s all turned out.”
“You didn’t orchestrate anything, Mother. Brent and I saw each other again at the party. We were assigned to try the same case.”
Mitzy lifts her penciled eyebrows. “And who brought you home—making it possible for you to be at the party and try your little case?”
Kennedy’s jaw hits the floor.
“You said Father was sick! You said he needed tests!”
“A means to an end, darling.”
Her indignant brown eyes zoom to her father. “You had an oxygen tank when I visited! And the”—her hand flutters in front of her face—“the nose thing!”
“That was your Aunt Edna’s oxygen,” her mother volunteers unhelpfully.
Her father has the decency to look ashamed—but only a little. “I just want you to be happy, princess.”
That’s when my mother reenters the conversation. “You know what I can’t decide, Mitzy?”
“What’s that, Kitty?”