Page 46 of You're So Vine
“Oh.” Mom sounded disappointed. “I would have liked to meet him properly.”
“He has to go to work. Earn a living. You know, like regular people.”
Mom ignored my feeble attempt at class warfare. So, she should. I’m a big, fat hypocrite. I’m running back to my extremely large and luxurious family home. Worse, I’m being driven back by my mother, who’s decorated the place in a style she likes to call “country”. Us Durant kids joke that she means a whole country. Like one of those land-locked principalities in Europe.
We turn into our tree-lined gravel driveway, and I start to panic. After I walked out on Cam at the Creamery, I pounded the pavement straight to the hospital. Did the admin, had the blood tests, all in a fury that proved a useful distraction. But now, reality’s hitting. I can’t go back to Cam’s, so I’ve no choice but to stay here and be interrogated by an overly anxious mother and a father who’s even less patient than I am. Oh, joy.
Nope. No can do. I’d rather bunk down beneath an overpass.
Reading my mind, Mom says, “Will you be staying the night? Danny’s staying on to do some more business, so we can have a small family dinner. You could even invite Cam,” she adds, a little plaintively.
Okay. If Mom’s under the impression that Cam and I are still tight, I can get away with a few white lies until I can figure out a plan. “I’ve just come back to grab some clothes,” I tell her, as we pull up outside the house. “I’ll stay at Cam’s for a couple more nights. And I think we have plans for dinner. But thank you for the offer, Mom. I appreciate it.”
“Oh.” Mom’s disappointed again, but she rallies quickly. “Well, I’ve baked your favorite cookies. Chocolate and salted caramel.”
And today is brought to you by … sugar! Though I’m still hanging onto that last donut. My plan is to eat it while Cam watches in a petty, petty act of revenge. If he ever wants to see me again, that is.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down,” Mom insists as soon as we set foot indoors. “I know how blood tests can take it out of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hook a thumb toward the stairs. “But I’ll go pack first—”
“Is that you, Ava?”
Or I’ll pack later.
“Hi, Dad.”
The most disconcerting thing about my father is how much he looks like Nate. All right, yes, and me. At fifty-nine, his hair is still dark, only partly flecked with gray, and his eyes are our shared bright blue. Mitch’s eyes have a quality Nate and mine don’t, though. When he fixes you with a stare, you feel like you’re being impaled by shards of glacier ice. Judgmental glacier ice shards that target all your weak spots.
“Ray’s not taking my calls” is his conversation opener.
“I’m great, Dad. Thanks for asking.”
I know I shouldn’t rise to it. But there’s so often a gap between knowing and doing.
“Your father is concerned about you,” says Mom, quietly.
Is he though? Or does he want to control me, like he always has? Does he want to make sure I know everything that I’m doing wrong? I’ve kind of had enough of people pointing out my flaws today.
But Mom deserves better than to watch me and Mitch scrap. So, I’ll keep my cool. Even if it kills me.
“Do you want to talk about it over coffee?” I ask Dad. “Mom’s made cookies.”
“I’d strongly advise you to reduce both your caffeine and sugar intake,” says Mitch. “You should keep your energy levels even. No spikes.”
I take a deep breath before I spike him.
“Just one cookie, Dad.” We won’t mention the donuts. “And I’ll have decaf.”
Pre-heart condition Mitch would have resented any response that wasn’t an unconditional “yessir.” But standing on the cliff edge of mortality has made him try harder not to raise his own blood pressure. Still fully capable of raising mine, though.
“Have you seen Ray yet? What does he—?”
“Let’s go into the kitchen, Mitchell,” says Mom. “Ava can sit down.”
Nice emotional blackmail there, Mom. Not that she does it intentionally. Years of living with Dad have honed her ability to influence him in ways so subtle that now neither of them realizes it’s happening.
I love our kitchen; it’s my favorite room. Because we’re (obviously) wealthy, Mom does have a housekeeper, but the kitchen is her domain. She’s always been an amazing cook. Mom and Dad’s dinner parties are legendary, though us kids suspect that, most of the time, Mom’s food only just makes up for Dad’s company. Their staunchest friends are the ones who love Mitch despite his intensity. And he can be great company when he lets himself relax. Which is maybe twice a year. For around ten minutes.
