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“Fortunately, if all goes well, I’ll have another chance.”
“You have your sights set on Los Angeles, then?” my dad asked. As a true-blue sports aficionado, there wasn’t a competition across the globe he wouldn’t relish discussing. He was also, however, a pacifist who hated altercations. I’d felt him side-eyeing me, aware of my growing frustration, ready to dive in wherever he could to avoid any possibility of contention.Kiss-up Kingsburyhe’d once told me they’d coined him in high school. I supposed the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
Settling back in my seat, I stewed over my missed opportunity to shove Darlene’s crystal chalice up her cosmetically-constructed tight little ass, nursing my Martinelli’s as the game dwindled to a conclusion. Small talk took over with the arrival of dessert, as two tuxedoed caterers distributed plates and offered the choice of sgroppino or Irish coffee.
“I understand you train hunters, Mrs. Kingsbury?”
Dillon had come to sit on the ottoman across from me, where she’d spent a few minutes chatting about the upcoming Olympics with my dad, before turning the conversation toward my mother.
My mom brightened and my heart sank.
We were never going to get out of here.
They chatted about horses as I gave in and snagged an Irish coffee. I learned Dillon’s sister was an equestrian—an eventerwho had served as an alternate on Great Britain’s Olympic team—and Dillon had grown up riding as well.
“Two Olympians in the same family!” My dad was enthralled.
I could tell they liked her. And honestly, what wasn’t there to like?
She leisurely chatted with them about the UK, about travel—my mother was fascinated by all the places she had been—and even held her own on my father’s favorite topic: sailing. She listened patiently as he launched into his retirement dream of circumnavigating the world on a thirty-foot ketch. My mother, unsurprisingly, managed to direct the conversation toward education, where I discovered Dillon had graduated from Cardiff University, earning a degree in physiotherapy.
And there it was—the clincher. Hook, line, and sinker, my parents were officially enamored.
I wondered, absently, as my head lightened with whiskey, if they’d still be so enamored if they could see beneath the ottoman, where I’d slipped off my heel and snuck my toes up the hem of her slacks.
Probably not, I decided, entertaining myself as I teased the bare skin of her calf, watching her try to keep a straight face while my mother droned on about the difference in the cost of horse-keeping between the US and UK.
My parents weren’t homophobic. Collectively, they were moderate in their views of politics, supported equality in both gender and sexual orientation, and I’d never heard a disparaging word about the queer community from either of them.
But the thing was, their daughter wasn’t gay. It was perfectly acceptable for someone like Dillon. Someone else’s daughter. Just not theirs. I knew my mom still clung to the hope that I would marry Carter. Since the day he’d shown up on my doorstep to pick me up for our sophomore homecoming—red rose for me in one hand, yellow rose for my mom in the other—I knew she’d been planning what pony she would buy for her grandchildren.
I doubted she’d have felt the same if my tenth-grade date had been named Candice instead of Carter.
“Jane!” Darlene swept over, interrupting my mother’s conversation with Dillon. “I’m taking a head count for breakfast. You and John will be joining us, I’m certain?”
My mother looked at me. “You’ll be staying the night, I hope? Breakfast tomorrow morning?”
I dropped my foot, fumbling around the carpet for my lost heel.“I’m sorry—I’ve got work, and Dillon—”
My mom’s face fell. “Kam, it’s Christmas—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kameryn,” Darlene interjected. “You always come for brunch. The menu tomorrow is exceptional. Finger sandwiches of hen’s egg mayo with English cress. Cucumber with mint cream cheese. Suffolk ham with Bavarian mustard. Fortum’s smoked salmon with tartare dressing. And of course scones,” she nodded toward Dillon, as if she should find that appealing. “Cornish lobster with brandy egg cream. Isle of Mull cheddar and sun-dried pepper with rosemary butter. Terrine de Campagne. Wild Mushroom Truffle Eclair. Flourless molten lava cake, lemon and raspberry tarts.”
It took me a moment to realize she’d finished speaking. I’d tuned out atdon’t be ridiculous, Kameryn. You always come for brunch.
The answer was a resounding no.
No way in hell. Over my dead body. Not on your tintype. Nixie. On the Day of Saint Never—however she needed to hear it, we were absolutelynotcoming to brunch.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, this time more firmly. “We can’t.”
“Can’t?” Dani sauntered over, looking dangerously pale. “Or don’t want to?”
The room grew uncomfortably silent.
I don’t know why twenty years of friendship seemed to suddenly hang on those four lingering words. And more, I don’t even know why I cared.
Tonight I had seen Dani in a different light, revealed in colors I’d never scrutinized before. I felt like I could finally see all the ways she’d trespassed against our friendship, all her snarking remarks and subtle digs, the constant way she put me down.
