Page 97 of On the Line

I can tell something is wrong.

I could tell something was wrong before he even left that day, but I’m not sure how to approach it. Maybe I’m reading too much into it … but I really don’t think I am this time. I wish he would just talk to me. All I want is to be there for him, but I don’t know how much I can push him for information when ourrealrelationship has only just begun.

Luckily, I’m working tonight, so at least I know I’ll be seeing him later.

Letting out a long exhale, I try to shake off the nerves from seeing my mother and square my shoulders, walking up to Mignon. Inside, the maître d’ escorts me to a table near the window. Since I arrived early on purpose, my mother is thankfully not waiting for me. The maître d’ pulls out the chair and I thank him as I sit down.

Hands wringing together on my lap, I wait.

Five minutes later, at one p.m. sharp, she arrives.

Even in the late summer weather, she has her Burberry coat delicately placed over her shoulders, a white satin top tucked into a tweed skirt, and black Chanel sunglasses daintily dangling from her French-tip nails.

She looks like the million bucks she’sactuallyworth.

I scurry to my feet before she gets to the table.

“Mom,” I say when she’s finally close enough for a hug. “You look great as always.”

She leans in for one of those no-contact air kisses, squeezing my arms with both hands before pulling away. “James, darling, you look—” she pauses to give me acondescending once-over while handing her coat to the server. “Different.”

“Different?” My laugh is apprehensive as we both sit down. “Nothing about my appearance has changed since you last saw me.”

She presses her lips together, a half-mocking smirk on her lips. “Just call it motherly instincts.”

The strength it takes for me not to retort back with a snarky quip about her failings as a mother is superhuman. Whatever she meant by her remark is left unanswered. It swirls between us with the already growing tension as we stay silent while the server pours sparkling water into crystal glasses.

The first half-hour of our meal is spent exchanging platitudes. However, I’m on high alert the whole time, waiting for the moment when she’ll strike.

“I heard from the Garrets that Zachary Benjamin is back home,” my mother says innocently while she picks at her salad. “Poor boy, what adreadfulaccident. You should go visit him, I’m sure he’d love that.”

And there it is.

My anxiety spikes with just the mention of his name, worsened by the knowledge that I’m partly to blame for the real reason his hand is mangled.

“We broke up, Mom,” I say with a puff of frustration. “It’s been over a month. Besides, he was a piece of shit.”

She lets out a small haughty inhale, her eyes darting around the room as if to check that no one heard me. She gently places her fork down, her gaze slowly dragging over to meet mine. Her movements are deliberate and I can tell that we’ve finally moved away from the boring small talk segment of this lunch.

“And how would I know that, James?Youcertainlydidn’t bother to tell me.” She lowers her voice in a near hiss. “I had to learn it from his mother, do you know howhumiliatingthat was?”

I smile coldly. “And that’s all you care about, right? The family image. Your place in that charade of a friend group?”

“Please.” She scoffs, looking away, her blonde hair swishing with the movement. “Don’t act as if this is all beneath you now that you’re slumming it with the working class.” Her cold stare returns, pinning me in my seat. “Your father and I know that this is just a phase. A simple teenage rebellion, a spoiled tantrum,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. I grip my fork, my heart pounding against my eardrums. “Eventually, you’ll come to your senses. You’ll come back home, and marry that sweet boy Zachary Benjamin.”

That sweet boy Zachary Benjamin.

My mind immediately goes to Ozzy.

And how astronomical the differences in their character are.

Maybe money isn’t the core issue of why Zachary turned out so horribly. Maybe he was already rotten to begin with, but I’m sure it didn’t help. I stay silent, turning her words over in my head, feeling nothing but cold contempt as she resumes eating her salad. I take a sip of my sparkling water, the bubbles dancing on my tongue andstrike.

“You know, Elizabeth, I pity you. When I look at you all I see is a bored housewife. Insecure and spiteful, needing to put others down just to feel better about your own miserable life. I feel bad for you, I really do. So much wasted potential spent on redecorating the pool house, and planning DAR luncheons.” I pause, my mother’s eyes growwide, and I barely feel any type of satisfaction. “I wonder who you’d be if you hadn’t married rich—if you weren’t stuck in such a loveless marriage.” I stand up, sliding my purse up my shoulder. “I won’t turn out like you.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, lips pursed into a thin line.

“James, sit back down,” she spits between clenched teeth.

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