Page 80 of Play the Game
“Hi, Mom,” I say, fisting my free hand with the anticipatory anxiety I always feel when her name shows up on my phone screen. Not for the first time, I have the thought that this is a really fucked up way to feel about talking to your own mother.
“Evangeline, why haven’t I gotten your RSVP to the winter ball?”
Fuck. The invitation to the annual fundraiser my parents chair for Boston Children’s Hospital has been sitting on my kitchen counter for three weeks. The response card mocks me every morning while I make coffee. Thewill attend/will not attendlines stare up at me as I try and find the courage to just say no. I’ve been looking for that courage for the past thirteen years and I haven’t found it yet, but maybe this is my year.
“Sorry, Mom. Work has been crazy, and I haven’t had time to send it back yet.”
“Honestly Evangeline, how hard is it to send back a response card? It’s stamped and everything. All you have to do is check yes and put it in the mail. I’m sure there is a mail room at that law firm of yours where you could drop it off.”
My mind flashes to the fundraiser. Finding a dress to hide the baby bump that gets bigger by the day. Heels. Forced smiles and small talk and my mom parading Chris and me around like we’re some big happy family. The barely concealed disappointment I know she’ll carry like one of her Chanel bags when she finds out I’m pregnant.
“Actually, Mom, I’m not sure if I can come this year.”
There. I said it. I hold my breath, waiting for the fallout.
“Don’t be ridiculous; of course you’re coming. Your dad and I are counting on you and your brother. Even Chris will be there, and you know how hard he’s working to get ready for spring training. If he can make the time, then you certainly can.”
Bingo.
Without consciously thinking about it, I wrap my free hand around my waist and hunch my back—my instinct when I talk to my mom always to make myself smaller. As if the shape of my body mirrors the way I feel with her voice in my ear. Before I can respond to her, I feel Cooper’s hand on my back, the warmth of his body as he sits down next to me. He doesn’t say anything, but everything about the quiet support in his body language, the look on his face, saysI’m right here.
Leaning back into his touch, I fill my lungs with air. “I have abig case I’m working on. I’ve told you this before. It’s taking up all of my time, and it’s important to me, Mom. I have to do this well if I’m going to make partner.”
My mom make a dismissive noise. “The ball is on a Saturday night. Surely you can take a Saturday night off for your family. You’re a Rhodes, Evangeline. Everyone will expect you to be there.”
You’re a Rhodes.
Everyone expects.
Be more like Chris.
It’s the soundtrack of my life. The refrain I heard throughout my childhood. The one that says, louder than any words ever could,you’re not enough. The one I’ve never—not once—been brave enough to disobey.
“Fine,” I mumble, my eyes fixed on the floor as I fight the strange urge to burst into tears.
“Wonderful!” my mom says, all cheer now that she knows she’s getting her way. “Will you be bringing someone?”
“Fuck yes, you will,” Cooper mutters, obviously overhearing my mom’s side of the conversation through the phone.
When I glance over at him, the fury in his eyes is a stark contrast to the gentleness of his hand on my back, the way his thumb strokes up and down my spine. In a split second, my image of the ball rearranges. Walking in arm in arm with Cooper. Having someone there to snark with at the ridiculousness of Boston’s upper class. To be there so I don’t have to face my parents alone. Us sharing a table with Chris and Rio, all my favorite guys in one place. Cooper’s arms around me while we dance. Suddenly it doesn’t feel so terrible. “Yeah, Mom, I’ll be bringing someone.”
“Finally! It’s about time you settled down. You’ve never brought someone to a winter ball and people talk, you know? Chris was years younger than you are now when he started bringing Rio.”
I grip my temples between my thumb and forefinger anddrop my head, a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment curling in my gut. “I have to go, Mom.”
“Fine,” she says breezily. “But do remember to send back that response card so the event planner knows to count you.”
“I will,” I say, yanking the phone away from my ear and stabbing the button to end the call before she has a chance to say goodbye. My little act of rebellion that I wish was less of a petty act and more of afuck you, but I’ve never managed the courage for that.
Setting the phone down on the bench next to me, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the toxic cocktail of feelings a phone call with my mom always stirs up to subside. Except before it does, I’m wrapped up in a pair of strong arms. Cooper’s pine scent surrounds me as he holds my head against his chest and presses his lips to my hair, and everything inside me settles.
Magic.
“Want to talk about it?” he murmurs, running a hand down my hair.
I huff out a laugh. “You mean how my mom is a grade-A asshole who doesn’t care about me unless she needs me to make an appearance so we can play happy family? Or the way I’ve never, not one single day in my life, been enough for her? Or the way that, despite all of that, and the fact that I’m a full-grown adult, my instinct is still to try and please her and my dad? Which part would you like to talk about, Cooper?”
Cooper runs a hand up and down my back and I close my eyes, sinking deeper into his hold, hating myself a little for the fact I’m leaning on him like this—that I can’t just handle my own family shit without falling to pieces. “Any of it. All of it. None of it, if that makes you feel better. I’m here, Ev.”
