Page 53 of Masks and Mishaps

“She’s the reason you and your two best friends seem to be addicted to sex workers?”

“She’s the reason why all three of us recognize your careers matter and are as valid as ours…or lack thereof, seeing as Lan and Ev—”

“Are now unemployed scrubs,” Essie fills in.

“Exactly. And secondly,” I clear my throat, “…it’s been weird between Mom and me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Since when?”

“Since last December.” Since she got engaged to Porter aftersix fucking weeks.

Essie inhales through her nostrils. “Dalton Franklin Richmond Cavendish the Fourth, how dare you?” she demands, shaking her head before she points into the restaurant, alarming the hostess inside. “Fighting with your mother? That woman has done everything for you, starting with birthing what I have to assume was your enormous baby form—”

“Ohplease. She didn’t have to push me out; she had a c-section.” I pause, realizing what I said. “Okay, yeah, I just heard it. But when it comes to you—”

“Don’t put this on me,” she warns, shooting the sternest glare possible. Then she steps back, looks away, and breathes out like she can expel the anger from her body with that mere exhalation. When she faces me again, her expression is placid as usual. “Come on. We’re late.”

My mother and Porter are already on one side of the booth when the hostess leads Essie and me over. Mom is laughing with her head thrown back, and when she sees us, she hops out and gives Essie the biggest hug I’ve ever witnessed—and that’s saying something because my mom hugs everyone. Like, when I was seventeen and had a bad reaction to shrooms at a party, she had a ten-minute conversation with the dropout who sold me the shrooms,hugged him, and wished him luck on an upcoming job interview—all while I was tripping in the backseat of her car, convinced the seatbelts were pythons.

My mom and Essie finally separate, and Essie hugs Porter—and does a thoroughly convincing job pretending she’s happy to see him.

Porter Lennox is the human version of a pluot: a plum/apricot hybrid. He’s like two weird fruits nobody likes, mixed together even though nobody asked. He’s a few years younger than my mom, and with a full head of light brown hair, he looks great for his age—which is good for him because my mother happens to be beautiful. Then again, he fathered Essie Romero, so it’s not surprising the guy is hot. But good looks aside, he’s just…there.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, squeezing Essie. He smiles at her. “How have you been?”

“Working,” is her response, muffled into his chest.

He finally lets her go. “Is the internship keeping you busy?” Essie nods, and before she can continue, Porter grins. “Speaking of work, Christian was telling me about his forensics lab this semester.”

Essie glances in my direction before she slides into the booth. Christian is the oldest of Essie’s younger brothers and a sophomore at Boston College.

“He says the professor is a great contact for getting a role at the Bureau after graduation,” Porter continues. “Can you imagine having a son in the FBI?”

“Essie is doing algorithmic trading models for forex,” I mention, holding out my hand. Porter shakes it. I squeeze. He winces and wiggles his fingers after I let go.

Bitch.

Mom hugs me, and I keep it quick before I slide in next to Essie. Mom is opposite Essie, and Porter takes the spot across from me.

“She’s the only one who can do financial modeling,” I comment, tipping my head in Essie’s direction. “Most of the analysts and VPs barely understand it, so hardly anyone can show Essie the ropes. She was the top choice for the intern class.”

“Oh...I didn’t know,” Essie murmurs.

“Of course you were. You’re literally reducing the efficiency barrier to milliseconds and setting us up to carry out forex transactions around the clock. How could you not be the best?”

A softness takes over Essie’s face. “I didn’t realize you knew much about my work.”

“Sounds complicated,” Porter comments before I can tell Essie about the financial modeling course I took after I met her. He picks up a menu. “So, what’s good here?”

I scoff. “Mom, you know everything about banking. You didn’t tell Porter what Essie does?” But once I ask the question, a hand touches my leg—Essie’s. The look she shoots is a tacit order:Let it go.

Yeah, that’s not my thing.

My mom pauses with her lips parted and glances between Porter and me. “Well, Porter has never worked in finance.”

“Neither have you,” I remind her. “He should know what his daughter does.”

My mom’s eyebrows rise—and her eyebrows have a point. Porter doesn’t need to knoweverything. While my mom is well-aware Essie is a camgirl, Porter has no idea—per Essie’s request. But still, Essie worked her ass off for this internship. Porter should be proud of her; that’s what dads are good for.

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