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It might be the cheapest thing I’ve had in my entire life.
But…
Okay, maybe it’s not so bad.
“Hey.”
I pull myself from my thoughts and find Marcella opening another cheese stick. “Yes?” I ask.
She nudges her chin at the rest of my bread chunk and cheese. “What do you think?”
“I think if you’re trying to make our first date a disaster so I won’t want another one, you are doing a very poor job of it.”
She goes still. “Are you serious?”
“Quite.” Smiling, I relax and tear off a surprisingly light and buttery piece of bread. “I’ve had a most splendid time thus far, and I am eager to continue.”
“Continue? There’s more?”
“You’ve not gotten any new outfits.”
“I got unmentionables, socks, and pajamas at Walmart. My suits are nice. I don’t need day clothes.”
I hum. “Are you sure about that? There’s a difference between attending events with me as my assistant and as my date. You need evening gowns for balls, fine dining. Casual attire for yacht parties, movie premiers. It may even be prudent to get you athletic wear. Once the seasons change, I’d like to take you apple picking, pumpkin carving, to a haunted house, on a hayride…all sorts of things that aren’t easy to do in a suit.”
“Bonfire?”
“Excuse me?”
“When it gets colder, I always want to burn things, but my family has never had the space, so I resort to lining up a dozen tea candles and huddling near them for warmth while I bask in the flickering glow. You have a large yard. At both your local homes. We could set things on fire.”
I beam. “My girlfriend’s an arsonist.”
Wary, she surveys me. “I don’t want to know why that excites you.” Heaving a breath, she finishes her food, twists the tie back onto the bread bag, and folds her arms. “What happened to you while you were growing up that left you with a twisted desire for abuse?”
Whoa, left turn.
My mind flips through memories of my childhood, private schools, tutors, busy parents, jealous friends, toys to fill the gaps between emotional connections. My mother was always in the kitchen. Baking, cooking, sending me off with elaborate snacks that the kids would tease me about. She insisted we all sit down for meals together, as a family, whenever possible. I lost my father earlier than most, but Marcella knows that. The news covered it and plastered my grief everywhere while I stepped up to fill his shoes. She doesn’t know about Mom’s declining mental state because I’ve managed to keep it out of the public eye.
Even before the dementia started setting in, Mom preferred to stay out of Dad’s spotlight. She was the silent strength that held us together and gave us something normal while I was groomed to be heir and Dad’s new businesses kept taking off, just like my grandfather’s had.
She was everything to us.
She is still everything to me.
Even on the days when I’m not certain she remembers exactly who I am.
“Are you…okay?” Marcella asks after I fear I’ve been quiet too long. I refocus to find her looking overly concerned about someone she claims to hate. Unease apparent, she says, “You stopped smiling. Was your childhood really that bad?”
My head shakes. “No. It was great.”
Her fingers dig past her suit jacket as she grips her arm. “Are you thinking about your father?”
A sting pierces my chest. It’s been years. I wish I were used to life without him by now. I’m just…not. “I miss him. He was a good…a good dad.”
“I’m sorry.”
I force a small smile before putting energy into finishing my bread and cheese. “To answer your first question, I don’t think I have a twisted desire for abuse. I suppose I simply don’t find you particularly abusive.”
