Page 55 of Masks and Mishaps

Porter stares at me—and I stare right back. “Hey, no worries. I like snowmen,” he relents, which makes my mother burst out laughing. “But I figured, with a wedding and an open bar—”

My expression is pure stone. “That I’d make some fuckass toast? You think I would ever embarrass my mother?”

Mom stops laughing immediately when she realizes I’m upset. “Well, hold on—”

“Are we not allowed to talk about it?” Porter asks, glancing around the table, but nobody else is agreeing with him.

“Porter,” my mom begins. “Dalton enjoys himself. And Dalton, Porter has a beautiful sense of humor, which I think you’ll appreciate.”

“I’m just saying—” Porter begins, but he doesn’t get far.

“First of all, Dad,” Essie interrupts, crushing her hand againstmythigh now, “Dalton makes half a million dollars a year before his bonus, so whether or not the bar is open has no impact on his drinking.”

She’s not wrong.

“Secondly,” Essie continues, pointing at her father in that classic, Essie Romero way, “he’s a brilliant speaker, and you’d be lucky if he gave a toast. He was drunk at your engagement dinner because his father is a massive asshole who broke up his family, and his mother is marrying someone he doesn’t know. We all cope differently. Not everyone understands how we grieve, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re grieving, does it?”

Porter’s brow is tight. I don’t know this pluot at all, but I know Essie handed his ass on a platter. When she talks about grief, she’s talking about what he did after his wife died.

“Essie,” he begins, and a contrite look spreads over his face.

But Essie shakes her head before he can continue. “Actually, I’m done here.”

She faces me, and I slide out of the booth so she can get out as well.

With a deep breath, Essie turns to my mom. “Alyssa, it was lovely to see you. Please text me if you need anything before the wedding,” she says in her usual even, melodic tone. Then, she faces Porter. “Dad, I need space, and you’re going to respect that. I’ll be at the wedding.”

“But—”

“Say yes,” my mom cuts in before taking a swig of her mimosa.

Resigned, Porter dips his chin. “Sure, hon. I’ll give you space.”

“Thank you,” Essie finishes before she turns to me. “Are you coming?”

I take out my wallet, pull out two hundred dollars, and leave the bills on the table.

Anywhere she goes, I’m going too.

***

It’s a couple minutes to my car, which is parked on a shady residential street. I open the passenger door for Essie, and when I get in the driver’s side, she’s looking out the window.

“Thank you.” I reach over to take her hand, but before I can, she faces me. Her expression is tight.

“How could you treat your mother like that?” she demands.

...Ah, I fucked up. I clearly fucked up.

“You’re mad at me? I thought—”

“How can you be cold to her? That’s not you.”

It’s really not me, but I shake my head anyway. “She’s different with him.”

“She’sin love. I know you don’t like my dad, and I don’t always like him either, but he’s easygoing and he obviously makes her laugh. Did Frank ever do that?” she questions, shaking her head in exasperation—and it’s my fault.

“Damn it,” I grit before I hit the side of my fist against the steering wheel. “Damn it.I’m sorry. I fucked up like I always do—”

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