Page 107 of Knot Just for Show

“The red tile really makes it look like Dracula designed the pool area,” he sighs, before offering—“If everyone hates it, we can always change it—I just never really considered it a priority, living here by myself.”

Ursula, having gotten up to see what all the fuss was about, looks down at the pool with discernable trepidation.

“I mean, I love red and everything…but this might be a little much.” She gives a gentle shudder. “Can’t wait to meet dear old dad…hopefully he and I can connect over our shared favorite color,” she laughs, reaching for Lysander.

I’m not sure if I imagine a worried tic of Lysander’s eyelid at the mention of his father, but he’s quick to change the subject all the same.

“Sorry the call took so long,” he apologizes. “I was also detained by our dear Timothy and Kimberly stopped me to deliver the schedule for the rest of the week.” He raises his brows, his hands clasped together as he continues on, his smile tentative—the camera crew struggling to frame Lysander in shot without the rest of us. “Tomorrow evening we’ll be having a dinner with all of the families”, Lysander takes a moment to pause, his care to avoid highlighting whose family members would or would not be there—barreling onward. “Production decided to double dip, so we’ll be having a private supper witheveryoneat Mavren’s restaurant—where we’ll have a chance to meet his sister along with the members of her pack before the final mixer, where we will get to see everyone who didn’t make it to Costa Rica and to announce our chosen pack names before we head into the trial heat.” He beams, though all of us are keenly aware that he’s neglected to mention when we will be meeting his family. “After the heat, is the bonding ceremony and the reveal of our choice to bite in or not.” Lysander adds with finality.

“What about your parents?” Ursula presses curiously.

Lysander swallows hard, his head nodding in a seasick un-rhythm—as if this is an expected but still dreaded question.

“I had planned to take you to see them tomorrow morning, if that’s alright,” he says tightly.

Ronan and I exchange a look, unsure of why Lysander’s parents won’t be attending dinner at Pomme Verte along with the others…but say nothing.

“Of course—I know things with your father have been…tense in the past. I can understand if a sit down dinner in front ofcameras was a little too much to ask of that situation,” Ursula croons, resting her head on Lysander’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Lysander lets slip, a gallows laugh. “You have no idea.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ursula

Iwoke bright and early this morning to ensure I would have more than enough time to prepare myself to meet Lysander’s parents.

I consulted my small, leatherbound notebook from the bubbles; the cluster of pages from early in my dates withLysander—where I had taken meticulous notes on his favorite books, mozart compositions, Dutch Masters paintings—the names of the schools he attended, alongside the few things he absolutely will not eat (tripe, seeded grapes, and raw octopus), and of course—the names of his parents as well as all of his pets ages five through fifteen.

Preston and Harper Ewing. I can only hope that they don’t despise me outright.

Even though it’s a warm,summer day in the city of LA, I struggle into a pair of sheer olive-nude stockings in favor of going legs-bare beneath my incredibly-conservative baby pink Boucle skirt suit.

I feel like some kind of daft real estate agent or possibly the headmistress of a finishing school for rich, preppy girls—the bubblegum pink hem of the skirt brushing my knees, my hair in pin curls that bounce around my ears—giving my pearl necklace plenty of room to breathe over the high-neck of the knit silk tank top beneath my cropped, collarless jacket.

“Woah.” Ash blinks as he catches sight of me fixing my lipstick in one of the many mirrors lining the hallway from the nesting wing to the grand salon. “I don’t know whether I should ask for a showing of the Barbie dream house or for you to buckle me into the pink rhinestoned St. Andrew’s cross that’s inevitably stowed somewhere on your property in that getup.” He grins at me, careful not to muss my candy pink lipstick as he bends to peck me on the lips.

“You look very respectable, Mr. KR3OSOTE.” I smooth my hands over the shoulders of his seersucker jacket, it’s puckered grey and white stripes, crisp against his pale yellow linen button down; Ash’s usually messy mop of lavender blonde swept back into a neat coif—a barely perceptible clear silicone retainer in place of his usual wardrobe of glittering piercings.

“What about us, do we pass?” Ronan calls genially, he and Mavren appearing in their ownmeet the parentsfinery.

“You all look so classy.” I turn to fully face the pair; Mavren, in a pair of well tailored gray slacks—a knit silk polo in a beautiful shade of persimmon tucked tidily behind a black braided belt—a vintage Bulova on his wrist, his locs tied back from his regal face, low on the nape of his neck. Beside him, Ronan fiddles with the white French cuffs on his robin’s egg blue shirt; a pair of cufflinks, johnny jump ups set in clear resin, wink at his wrists, whiskey brown leather suspenders framing his broad chest.

“I feel like all of you have just leaned into your trademark styles and I’m cosplaying as someone his parents might tolerate rather than myself,” I laugh self consciously, clicking on my kitten heels to bestow kisses upon Mavren and Ronan.

“I don’t know, I think you look pretty in pink—Princess.” Teddy purrs as he appears from the far end of the hall. A pair of navy slacks, an expensive white T-shirt; the sleeves straining over his sculpted shoulders—a tan silk knit sweater draped across his trapezius, the arms crossed beneath his neck. I swallow down a laugh, because even though he looks like he’s doing his best impression of the captain of a tennis team at a stuffy school for rich boys, he also looks just as hot as he usually does…if not somehow more so because it feels almost taboo to see reformed-fuckboy-Teddy so clean cut looking.

“Don’t worry, this won’t take too long. I’m sure all of us can help get you out of that suit once we’re done with this little obligation,” Lysander calls after Teddy, rounding the corner from the grand salon to complete our sextet.

I can’t help but suck a breath through my teeth. Though I won’t say it out loud, Lysander looks terrible. His usually luminous, silky skin looks wan and sallow—smears of dark purple sleeplessness circled beneath his hollow-looking brown eyes.

“Sandy,” Teddy wavers, his face contorted with worry, his hand already reaching for Lysander.

Lysander turns his head, catches his reflection in one of the many gilt framed mirrors that line the hallway—a hand raising instinctively to his face.

“Oh jeez, I really look almost as shitty as I feel,” he groans, running a hand back through his hair—his pale pink shirt collar undone, one of it’s long tails untucked and rumpled as it hangs over the narrow waist of his pleated stone colored chinos.

“Hey man, if you’re not up to this—why don’t we get you back to bed? I can make some chicken soup for you or something. We can call your parents and tell them you’re in rough shape,” Mavren offers, already halfway down the hall on his way to the kitchen, but Lysander waves him off.

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