Page 46 of Lie With Me

Mom’s fork clatters to her plate. “Dry? I don’t makedryroast.”

Sounds of Lenni continuously clearing her throat echo throughout the dining room as she gasps between coughs. “Hey, at least it’s not fatty. I hate fatty roast.”

Pops and I share a knowing look, holding our glasses up to each other before draining our wine. “I think I might need something stronger,” I mutter under my breath.

The rest of dinner is just as tense. Lenni is more agreeable with her answers, but Mom’s questions have become snippy and, at times, downright mean.

“What exactly is it you do for work?” she asks as Pops clears the table.

“Oh, I work with my friend Ginny. She’s opening a new family center soon, and I’ll be doing administrative work for her.” Lenni reaches for my hand beneath the table and squeezes it softly. Ourprearranged sign that she’s had enough and wants to leave.

“So, you’re asecretary?” Mom’s tone is distasteful.

Clucking my tongue, I wag a finger at her. “Don’t let Stacey hear you talking like that about her job title now, Mother.” Turning to Lenni, I explain, “Stacey is Jackson’s secretary. Her job isnoteasy. I admire anyone in that line of work.”

“Well, that won’t do once you’re married. Especially not when you begin to have children.”

Pops groans and scrubs his face as he sits back in his seat. “Margo, give it a rest tonight, will you?”

“I actually can’t have children. So, any kids we have will be adopted, and the older children have more trouble finding homes, so I think I’d like to start there. They’ll be in school, and the center will have after-school programs,” Lenni snaps.

She drops my hand and places her linen napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course, it’s down the hall and to the right,” Pops offers remorsefully.

“Thank you, Weylan. I remember.”

If looks could kill, Mom would be severely injured by the daggers I glare at her. “Seriously, Mother?”

“Did you know she can’t have kids?” Mom asks softly, looking like Lenni’s outburst truly bothered her. I know my mom, though, and she probably feels worse about pushing her to that point than she doesat hearing we won’t be giving her any hypothetical biological grandchildren.

“Tripp, why don’t you go check on her?” Pops gently orders, fixing Mom with a hard stare.

Tossing my napkin on the table, I scoot my chair back roughly, relishing when Mom winces as it squeaks against the polished mahogany floor. Quickly, I make my way down the hall to the half bathroom and gently knock on the door.

“Viv? You okay?”

Through the heavy wood door, I can hear her sniffling before she calls out, “I’m fine.”

Lowering my hand to the doorknob, I turn it slightly to find it unlocked and duck into the bathroom with her.

“Hey! What are you doing?” she cries out as I spin to face away from her.

“I’m sorry if you needed to use the bathroom. I just wanted to check on you, and it sounded like you were crying.”

“I’m not using the bathroom. I just needed a break. Plus, my cramps are starting up again. I want a high dose of pain meds and to curl up with that tub of ice cream you got.”

Looking over my shoulder, I see her sitting on the toilet, hunched over with her arms wrapped around her waist. When I turn to face her, she stands. “Can we just go?”

“Yeah, we can go.” Stepping toward her, I grab her waist and press her against the vanity, spreading my other hand over her abdomen.

“What are you doing, Tripp?” Her hands brace on my forearms, head tilting back, locking her gaze with mine.

Unhurriedly, I begin to rub her stomach—slow, smooth strokes with the pads of my fingers over the buttery fabric of her dress. “I’m sorry your cramps are back.”

My fingers inch lower as her breath hitches. “It’s fine.”

“You know, I’ve heard that orgasms relieve the pain of cramps,” I breathe into the space between us, dipping my fingers into the band of her underwear through her dress.

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