Good. We shall accompany you."
Just invite yourself along, why don't you? I thought. But that was my mother. Always trying to compensate for my father's inattention by drawing the attention of the world to herself. She didn't let herself think she wouldn't be welcome at a dinner between a recently married man and wife.
I opened my mouth to tell her we were going to go on our own, thank you very much, but then she began to cough.
And didn't stop.
Dread curdled in my stomach. Had she come all the way out here while undergoing treatment? She looked so thin. Was she going to continue treatment here? Was she dying?
Was this the last time I was going to see my mother?
I glanced at Anton, and though he still had a murderous glare on his face, he wavered enough to meet my eyes.
I'm sorry , I mouthed at him.
His lips tightened and he looked away. I tried not to let it hurt me, but his rejection stung like a knife deep in my belly. But I couldn't turn my back on my mother. She was the reason I had done all of this.
Grabbing a glass, I filled it with water and hurried over to her. "Okay, Mom," I said, pressing it into her hand. "We'll go to dinner."
She sipped water and the coughing fit passed. "Good," she said. "I'm hungry. Show your father a spare room where we can put our bags.
I didn't even glance at Anton, just nodded and hugged my mother. Thin bones poked through papery skin, and I closed my eyes.
*
Dinner was an awkward affair, but at least Anton didn't make any moves on me. Instead of being all over me, like I'd feared, he was distant and cold, clearly unhappy with this turn of events. I tried to laugh and look happy in case anyone was taking pictures of us, my mother spent half the meal berating me and the other half planning the wedding, and my father stared down at his steak and was uncharacteristically quiet.
When at last we returned to the mansion, I realized I hadn't even tasted the food I'd eaten. I couldn't even remember what I'd ordered. So much for living the high life.
To my everlasting dread, my mother fell asleep in the car on the way home—another reminder of her illness. I observed her in the light of the passing lampposts and bright marquees until we reached the house. My father woke her gently and together they went up the stairs to the third-floor bedroom. The bedroom I'd claimed as my own was on the fourth floor, and of course Anton's bedroom was on the top. I told my parents good night, and then followed Anton's silent back up the stairs to the fourth floor. When we reached it, I wavered.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me. Tension I didn't even know I was carrying curled into hard knots in my legs, and I could barely keep myself standing as I lingered on the landing, full of uncertainty. Should I go to my room? Did Anton even want to see me?
At the foot of the stairs, Anton turned and regarded me.
"This was an unexpected night," he said. His voice was level and even, but I heard a tight note under it. He was not happy. Not happy at all.
I licked my lips. "I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't kick my parents out. My mom..." I trailed off. "She's sick. She's the reason I married you to help my dad."
He quirked a brow. "Sick?" he said.
"Cancer," I clarified. "I can't believe she flew out here." I shook my head. "She's really angry with me..."
He held up a hand. "Stop. I don't care. I wanted a wife, not her family."
For such a rich, handsome, sexually experienced douchebag, Anton really was kind of dumb when it came to interpersonal relationships. "Well, I hate to tell you this, but that's how it works. You marry a woman, her family comes along for the ride."
"Literally," he said sourly.
I shrugged. "They'll be gone after the wedding. Which, if mom has her way, is going to be in two months." Jesus. That'd be the end of December. Who got married at the end of December? People wanting a tax write-off, maybe.
"They aren't staying here for two months," Anton said, his face hard. "They are allowed
Just invite yourself along, why don't you? I thought. But that was my mother. Always trying to compensate for my father's inattention by drawing the attention of the world to herself. She didn't let herself think she wouldn't be welcome at a dinner between a recently married man and wife.
I opened my mouth to tell her we were going to go on our own, thank you very much, but then she began to cough.
And didn't stop.
Dread curdled in my stomach. Had she come all the way out here while undergoing treatment? She looked so thin. Was she going to continue treatment here? Was she dying?
Was this the last time I was going to see my mother?
I glanced at Anton, and though he still had a murderous glare on his face, he wavered enough to meet my eyes.
I'm sorry , I mouthed at him.
His lips tightened and he looked away. I tried not to let it hurt me, but his rejection stung like a knife deep in my belly. But I couldn't turn my back on my mother. She was the reason I had done all of this.
Grabbing a glass, I filled it with water and hurried over to her. "Okay, Mom," I said, pressing it into her hand. "We'll go to dinner."
She sipped water and the coughing fit passed. "Good," she said. "I'm hungry. Show your father a spare room where we can put our bags.
I didn't even glance at Anton, just nodded and hugged my mother. Thin bones poked through papery skin, and I closed my eyes.
*
Dinner was an awkward affair, but at least Anton didn't make any moves on me. Instead of being all over me, like I'd feared, he was distant and cold, clearly unhappy with this turn of events. I tried to laugh and look happy in case anyone was taking pictures of us, my mother spent half the meal berating me and the other half planning the wedding, and my father stared down at his steak and was uncharacteristically quiet.
When at last we returned to the mansion, I realized I hadn't even tasted the food I'd eaten. I couldn't even remember what I'd ordered. So much for living the high life.
To my everlasting dread, my mother fell asleep in the car on the way home—another reminder of her illness. I observed her in the light of the passing lampposts and bright marquees until we reached the house. My father woke her gently and together they went up the stairs to the third-floor bedroom. The bedroom I'd claimed as my own was on the fourth floor, and of course Anton's bedroom was on the top. I told my parents good night, and then followed Anton's silent back up the stairs to the fourth floor. When we reached it, I wavered.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me. Tension I didn't even know I was carrying curled into hard knots in my legs, and I could barely keep myself standing as I lingered on the landing, full of uncertainty. Should I go to my room? Did Anton even want to see me?
At the foot of the stairs, Anton turned and regarded me.
"This was an unexpected night," he said. His voice was level and even, but I heard a tight note under it. He was not happy. Not happy at all.
I licked my lips. "I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't kick my parents out. My mom..." I trailed off. "She's sick. She's the reason I married you to help my dad."
He quirked a brow. "Sick?" he said.
"Cancer," I clarified. "I can't believe she flew out here." I shook my head. "She's really angry with me..."
He held up a hand. "Stop. I don't care. I wanted a wife, not her family."
For such a rich, handsome, sexually experienced douchebag, Anton really was kind of dumb when it came to interpersonal relationships. "Well, I hate to tell you this, but that's how it works. You marry a woman, her family comes along for the ride."
"Literally," he said sourly.
I shrugged. "They'll be gone after the wedding. Which, if mom has her way, is going to be in two months." Jesus. That'd be the end of December. Who got married at the end of December? People wanting a tax write-off, maybe.
"They aren't staying here for two months," Anton said, his face hard. "They are allowed
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