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“Good evening, Katherine.” Her voice sounds dry and crackly from years of ‘social’ smoking.
“Mother.”
Be nice, Kat.
“I was just telling James how lovely your dress for the gala is.” I seriously doubt my stepfather cares about such details. If it’s not a number in his bank account, he pays little attention.
Part of me wants to wear a trash bag just to scandalize her. But knowing my mother, she’d figure out some way to turn my stepping out of line into another feather in her cap. She’d probably go on record stating that I’m speaking out against single-use fashion. And after chewing me out, she’d turn around and give interviews with any magazine that called.
She knows how much I hate being in the spotlight. One of these days, I’m going to just walk away from everything and plunk my “padded” ass on a beach somewhere. I don’t care if I get sunburned or my hair frizzes.
“Why did you tell them I’d do the auction?”
I stare hard at the dress as if it’s responsible for my predicament.
“Oh, Katherine. You need to get out there. The auction is the perfect opportunity. And it’s such a good cause.”
I’m sure it is.
Which is the only reason I’m able to bite my tongue.
My frown is so deep I’ll probably get yelled at by my facialist. “I don’t want to be out there. I told you that.”
She speaks over me. “I know. You and Tyler are on the outs, but?—”
“No. We’re not on the outs, Mother. It’s over.” We were over the moment he sided with her over me.
“But—”
“No buts.”
“You can’t stay single forever.”
Oh, I most certainly can.
Has she met me?
My toy collection suits me just fine; it doesn’t hog the remote, and it never leaves socks on the floor. Plus, I’ve never had a battery-operated boyfriend leave the toilet seat up.
“Mother—”
“Katherine—” How does she manage to sound so put out when I’m the one in the vulnerable spot here? She’s not going to be standing on that stage in front of everyone.
I take a deep breath. In through the nose, hold for a count of four, out through the mouth, and hold for another count of four.
Is it too much to ask for a man to like me for me? Not my family name. Not my connections. Not my prospective bank account.
“Did you pause,” I bite out, “for a second to think of how I might feel out there? Paraded across a stage like cattle?”
“Oh my god, Katherine. Grow up. You are not a cow. This event is decades old and?—”
I tune her out.
This is becoming a habit.
There’s not a hint of concern in her words or her tone. She’s not the least bit apologetic. Did I really expect that?
No.
