Page 66 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
When I see my mom, she is frowning at her watch. My cheeks burn; there is no excuse for being late to see Meredith Monroe. She’s impeccably dressed as always, wearing a navy blazer and the same deep red lipstick that she always wears. Same dark hair as me, same dark eyes. That’s where the resemblance ends, though.
“Hi Mom,” I say, stepping close and offering her my cheek for a kiss.
“Hello, darling,” she murmurs. She pecks the air by my cheek, making a kissing noise, then looks me up and down. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you. You’re usually more respectful of others’ time.”
There it is. The condescension. I smile and sit down across from her, making my excuses. “Sorry, Mom. There was a lot of construction traffic.”
“Isn’t there always traffic?” She picks up her menu and calls the waiter over. “I’m starving, so get ready to order.”
I don’t even have to pick up the menu. We’ve been coming here to have lunch for years and the menu hasn’t changed. I order the farmhouse salad, which has blackberries, chevre, and a steamed filet of salmon on top. My mom orders the roasted duck breast with baby Brussels sprouts, her usual. She also orders us both a glass of Pipcoul, a white wine varietal that’s so dry it sucks all the moisture right out of my mouth.
It’s certainly no gin and tonic with four limes.
Mom launches into thinly veiled criticism before I can even speak.
“You look exhausted, Juliet,” she says, studying my face like she’s cataloging flaws. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Hmm.” She sips her sparkling water with the precision that makes everything feel like a performance. “You should really talk to your doctor. Have them check your thyroid and iron levels.”
“Really, Mom. I’m fine.”
Years of private schooling and pointed judgment taught my mom how to lift her wine glass with elegance. Her hairstylist styled her hair perfectly. Her blouse could undoubtedly pay my rent several times over.
Why did I say yes to our regular lunch date?
“I saw your name in that society column,” she says casually, as if it doesn’t cost her anything. “We should talk about your engagement.”
She looks pointedly at my ring finger. I took my ring off on the way over here and it’s now hiding in a zippered compartment of my purse. Now I feel like a soldier advancing on his enemy without a chain mail vest.
The diamond is protection, I realize. A way of telling people how they ought to interpret me. A way of saying that I belong to someone, even if it’s just a convenient lie.
I reach for my water and nod like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. Sorry, uh. It happened so fast that you and dad haven’t had time to meet him.”
This tracks. My mom is insanely busy practicing corporate law. Because he’s busy, my dad is rarely present in my life. My parents met Patrick only three times, twice at my graduation and at the dinner they hosted for me afterward.
It’s not so much that they’re uninterested in their dutiful daughter. It’s more that they are always busy with something more important. Business has always come first.
“We’ll look at our schedule and get back to you with a time to meet this fiancé of yours.” That idea makes me vaguely nauseous. Mom pins me with a look. “So? Who is he?”
I gulp. “Hunter Huxley. He plays for the Seattle Havoc.”
“Another hockey player?” She blinks once. “I assume this is a publicity stunt.” Then she smiles, like she’s offering me an out. “Unless this is one of those opposites attract situations. A phase, maybe?”
“It’s not a phase,” I say, because that feels like the right answer. I take a sip of my wine. “He’s a good man. You would approve.”
I’m kidding myself if I think Meredith Monroe would approve of Hunter. He’s my opposite: arrogant, threatening, coarse. My mom wouldhatehim.
Her brow lifts slightly, just enough to make the judgment known.
“You think so?”
No, I don’t. “We’re a power couple.”
“Is that what you want now? To be seen? To be… visible?” Her eyes flick over my blouse, my curly hair, the bright red lipstick I knew would draw her ire. “You used to value subtlety, Juliet.”
It’s not possible for me to become a man. I can’t somehow be less curvy. Hiding my body in clothes is impossible.” Pressing my napkin into my lap, I bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “It’s not that I don’t value ambition, Mom. I just don’t think it has to come in a navy pantsuit.”
