Max pulls into my apartment complex and stops in front of my building. I grab my purse and when my hand reaches for the door, Max speaks. “Did you maybe want to get something to eat tonight?”
My head whips around in shock, wondering if I heard correctly since he’s on my left. “Are you asking me out?” I blurt without thinking. Max turns bright red and drops his gaze to the steering wheel. His thumbs rub back and forth over the worn leather on the wheel.
“Yeah, I think I am.” Nervous eyes flick over to my face.
Crap. I don’t think of Max that way. How are we supposed to work together if I turn him down?
“Ummmm, I’m having dinner with my parents tonight,” I stammer.
“Oh.” He looks crestfallen, biting on his lower lip. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday, Britt.”
Nodding, I hurry out of the car, eager to be away from such an uncomfortable situation. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and sag. Jesus, I need Max asking me out like I need a hole in my head.
I hunch over and start giggling uncontrollably. I did have a hole in my head. It shouldn’t be funny, but for some reason I can’t stop. After fifteen minutes of ridiculous, near-hysteric laughter, I wipe my eyes and check the clock.
Crap.
Now there really will be something for my mother to be mad at. I’m going to be late.
* * *
I park my cherry red BMW coupe and hurry up the fancy paved stone stairs leading up to my parents’ front door. I don’t drive much, but I didn’t want to be at my parents’ mercy when it’s time to leave. The house hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s still massive, pretentious, and way too big for three people, let alone two.
I raise a hand, feeling for the amethyst pendant under my shirt. My finger hovers over the doorbell, and I realize I’m being ridiculous. This is, or was, my house until two years ago when I moved out. I open the door, stepping inside the two-story foyer.
“Britton?” My mom’s voice echoes in the large space. Her heels clack on the hardwood floor as she makes her way toward me.
“Hey, Mom.”
“You’re late, dear,” she chastises before I can even take a single step off of the expensive imported rug in front of the door.
“Sorry, Mom. I came as soon as I got out of work.”
“Well, dinner is ready. Come. Your father is waiting.”
I follow her into the ridiculously huge dining room, lit by two crystal chandeliers hanging over the twelve-person table.
“Britton, you’re looking lovely tonight.” My dad stands up and gives me a hug. I sink into the embrace. He’s not around much, having worked a lot over the years. Heck, he still works a lot. But I know my dad always loves me no matter what I do or say.
“Hi Daddy.” I lay my head on his chest and accept the comfort. It reminds me of a time before “the incident,” when I was a normal kid and not someone damaged who needed to be taken care of and told how to run my life.
“If you’re ready, Lina is bringing out dinner.” My mom’s voice snaps me back to the present.
Daddy pats my arm and releases me. He holds out my chair, pushing it in for me as I sit.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
My dad smiles, his blue eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
My parents’ housekeeper brings in dinner, setting plates in front of each of us before scurrying away. I pick at the dish, eating a few bites. For some reason, my appetite always vanishes when I eat here. My mother opens her mouth and I remember exactly why that is.
“So, Britton. The tenth anniversary of ‘the incident’ is coming up in September,” she mentions calmly, as if bringing it up it isn’t the equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on the table.
I continue focusing on my plate, not giving her the satisfaction of a response.
“Anyway,” she continues. “The school is doing a memorial service with the help of SASS, and I think you need to be there to speak.”
And there it is.
That’s why she wanted me here tonight. To guilt and bully me into speaking at her event. The exact type of event I’ve insisted over and over I want nothing to do with.
“No.” I clench my hands under the table, away from my mother’s prying eyes.
The single harsh word hits its mark. Mom’s eyes go wide a split second before she can control her face. Then her mask of cold disapproval slides into place, turning her into the mother I’ve known for most of the last ten years.
“Britton, don’t be so selfish. The families of the victims need you there,” she insists, her mouth turned down in the corners.
Heat floods my face and I swear, if I were a cartoon character, smoke would be billowing out of my ears. “Selfish?” I reply, my voice rising. “I’m selfish?” I push back my chair, shaking with anger, my half-eaten dinner going cold between us.
“Britt,” my dad interjects, attempting to coax me into calming down. He’s got to be as tired of the fighting as I am.