I wrinkle my nose. “Fantastic.”
Felix shoots me a look.
“What?” I say defensively. “They’re so boring. Ginny’s dad spends all his time telling vaguely racist jokes, and her mom is like a walking game show. She just tells you how much everything she owns costs her. ‘See this bracelet,’” I mimic her, “‘Ronald paid five-thousand dollars for it. We just bought a new Lexus and upgraded the trim.’ Ugh, it’s so weird.”
“Why do you think she does it?” Felix asks gently.
Ginny’s family is well off by most standards. Her dad is a prominent doctor in Nashville and her mother a homemaker. They were probably at the top of their social rung before their daughter met by brother. “I don’t know. To impress us?”
“To fit in,” he says. “Consider how overwhelming all of this is.”
My shoulders slump, not because I’m inaccurately describing the Higginboth family, but because I’ve spent the last few months having Sterling open my eyes opened to just how extreme our family’s wealth is. “I just wish…”
“Don’t wish. Act,” he advises. “Maybe you can make them feel more comfortable.”
“Okay,” I promise. I grab my hand pie and head back to my room, wondering what would make Sterling more comfortable. Honestly, I can’t imagine him ever feeling like he fits here—and that’s a bigger problem. I’m not sure I want him to fit in here.
Dinner is a formal affair held every year at three p.m. sharp. This allows the women to starve themselves all day in preparation for consuming so many calories, while ensuring the men have time for cigars and brandy. Some things never change. I opt for a deep red dress with long sleeves that end in dainty bell cuffs and a full skirt, but forego the standard heels in favor of the pair of gold velvet flats I wore for last year’s Christmas party. Opening the drawer to my nicest jewelry, I freeze when I spot the small ivory notecard. Familiar curly handwriting is scrawled across it.
Darling, I’m so proud of you and I can’t wait to see you graduate from Valmont in four years. These are probably a little much for campus, but I thought of you.
My hand shakes as I lift the card to find a pair of delicate golden earrings shaped like flower blossoms. On a thin wire hook in the center of the blossom’s bell, a brilliant opal dangles. My birthstone. How long had these been waiting for me, untouched? Since August, at least. Mom must have put them there around the time I was getting ready to start at Valmont. I tuck the card back in the drawer. It will be the last one I ever get, I realize. Staring at the earrings, I finally pick them up and hook them, one at a time, into my ear. I check the mirror, discovering that they catch the copper of my hair, reflecting a dozen shimmering hues.
The alarm on my phone goes off, warning me that I need to head down to the table. I drag my feet on the way. When I reach the landing to the stairs, my father is at the base, glowering at me from his wheelchair.
“Three sharp does not mean five minutes later,” he barks before wheeling away.
I don’t know why we have to go through any of it. Why do we have to pretend like everything is normal? Why does it matter if it’s three sharp—the time my mother set—or half an hour later? Why act like we have anything to be thankful for this year at all?
Plastering a smile on my face, I enter the dining room to discover everyone else already in their seats. Most years I’m sandwiched between guests, left to make small talk on topics I know little about and care even less for. This year, I stop when I see there’s no place for me.
My father clears his throat and nods toward the end of the table opposite him. “You’re the lady of the house now.”
My gaze lands on my mother’s place, the spot where she would sit and charm everyone, redirecting arguments before they could occur, seamlessly keeping track of when courses needed to appear, and making certain no one at the table wanted for anything.
I don’t move. I’m not up for the task.
“Adair,” my father says with a smile, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
“Maybe Ginny should,” I stammer.
“Nonsense. Ginny sits across from Malcolm, not me,” he says.
“Maybe they should sit at the ends of the table,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
A dangerous silence falls over the table. Eyes flicker between the two of us as our dining companions try to stay clear of the approaching storm.
“They are not the heads of this house.” His words are terrifyingly quiet. I strain to hear them, even though the implication is loud enough.
“Neither am I! We can just leave the spot to remember Mom,” I begin to suggest.
“Sit down.” He slams the table with his fist.
I don’t know where it comes from or why. It would be easier to just agree. It’s what my mother would do. She’d sit and quickly distract everyone from the unpleasantness with a witty story. I’ve never been any good at putting on airs. Instead, my hands ball to fists and I shake my head.
“What?” My father asks like he doesn’t understand.
“No,” I say in a quiet, but firm voice.
“You will—”
“No,” I shout, losing control, “I won’t sit here, fill her spot and pretend nothing’s wrong. I won’t act like I’m okay that she’s gone, not when we all know it should have been you!”
“Go to your room,” he roars.
“I thought I was a head of the house,” I spit back. “I guess that means I can do what I please.”
I dash out the side door, down to the kitchens. I don’t know why I’m running. He can’t follow me. Not in his wheelchair. I just know I need to get out—away
