Page 33 of False God

“Must have been the polo,” Dad comments.

Since my impulsive decision to participate in yesterday’s polo match, I’ve endured no shortage of commentary from my family. Taunts from my brothers about losing. Worry from my dad about the number of fouls during the game. Thinly veiled disappointment from my grandmother about my “unladylike” behavior.

Sometimes, I’m not sure how Gigi and my mom are related. But I’m very grateful I was raised by Scarlett Kensington instead of Josephine Ellsworth. My mom’s the only one who acted like me playing was completely normal while everyone else was staring and whispering.

Kit appears in the dining room a few minutes later, yawning, decked out in American flag board shorts and nothing else. Barefoot and sporting bedhead, looking like he just rolled out of bed and is headed straight to the beach.

Mom takes one look, then says, “Christopher. Shirt. Now.”

Kit casts a longing look at the spread of food, then drags a palm down his face. “It’s the Fourth, Mom,” he whines, looking to Dad for backup.

“No shirt, no service,” Dad tells him. “Listen to your mother.”

Kit groans, then walks back out of the dining room.

“If only Josephine were here,” Dad muses.

Mom gives him a side-glance. “Yeah? You’re in the mood for a lecture on how we’re raising our kids?”

“There wouldn’t be any lectures if we were staying in our own house.”

“Don’t start, Sport.” Mom grabs the carafe and pours some coffee.

My dad is civil with Gigi and Grandfather, but I wouldn’t call them close. I suspect it has a lot to do with their disparaging attitude toward Mom’s work, but I’ve never directly asked.

“Leah sent an email this morning,” Mom tells me. “The dresses just arrived at Carys Park.”

My mom’s fashion label, rouge, designed the bridesmaid dresses for me, Bridget, Fran, and Gwen—Chloe’s older sister—to wear to Chloe’s wedding.

“I’ll let Chloe know. Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course,” she replies. “I want to see lots of photos.”

“You will,” I assure her. “Chloe’s handing out disposable cameras to all the wedding guests.”

Bash wanders into the dining room. He has a shirt on at least, but it’s a wrinkled one that he’s wearing with basketball shorts.

“You never texted last night,” Mom scolds as he sits down across from us.

Bash yawns before apologizing. “Sorry.”

“You were with Kit?”

My youngest brother glances around the chairs before answering, “Yep.”

Bullshit.

I take a dainty sip of coffee, glancing between Mom’s narrowed eyes and Bash’s bleary ones. My parents were equally strict with all three of us, but Bash is the last one partially living at home. He has two years left at Dartmouth.

Dad intervenes. “If you’re out past midnight, your mother and I expect a text. Understood, Sebastian?”

“Uh-huh,” Bash says as he reaches for a cinnamon roll.

He’s always been the smartest out of the three of us. Unlike me, who hated school because of my dyslexia, and Kit, who was more interested in being the life of the party than getting straight As, Bash’s the sort of student teachers see as a futurejudge or surgeon. He’s more easygoing too. Kit or I would have argued for a one a.m. curfew.

Gigi enters the dining room next. Everything about her appearance is pristine, and her expression is as animated as I expected on this date.

She and Mom might not act a lot alike, but they look it. Meaning I resemble Gigi too, aside from the blue eyes Mom once confided are her favorite feature of Dad’s.

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