are you, Bliss?”
I could have narcolepsy! That would get me out of this question, right? I could just pretend to pass out. Or maybe I could really pass out?
My non-answer must have been enough to confirm things for her because she spun on her heel and started in Garrick’s direction.
I darted around her and held my hands up.
“Mrs. Taylor, wait. We didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her smile gave me chills. “I don’t think you did anything wrong .”
“You don’t?” I was shocked into silence.
“No, dear. My son is the one who has done something wrong.”
I flinched back like she’d slapped me. I had enough doubts about Garrick being with me in my head, all of which seemed to have compounded in the hours since we’d arrived. I didn’t need her adding any more to that. I stood up taller, and in my plain clearance dress, I faced off against her immaculate, no doubt heinously expensive cocktail dress.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Taylor. You’re wrong. Your son loves me. And I love him. We’re both adults, as we were when we met. If you make a big deal out of this now, you’ll only ruin this party and possibly the already unstable relationship you have with your son. He’s twenty-six, almost twenty-seven years old. He has a career and a fiancée, and you’re not going to win any battles by treating him like he’s a kid again. He’s an adult ,” I reiterated, though that was another word that had been said and thought so many times it was beginning to lose its meaning. “We both are. How we met doesn’t matter.”
Her red lips flattened into a line, and her gaze felt sharp enough to slice bread. She made this sound in her throat, not quite a laugh, more like a noise of surprise. “You have a head on your shoulders after all.”
Hey there, backhanded compliment. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other.
She was the one missing vital organs . . . like a heart. She stared at me for a few moments longer, and then smoothly turned her back to where Garrick was standing.
“Two questions, Bliss.”
Did I really just talk her down? Holy crap.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked her nails together and looked away from me as she asked, “Would you like to have lunch on Thursday?”
I was so shocked, I nearly choked on my saliva, which would have totally ruined the whole head-on-your-shoulders moment from a few seconds ago.
I forced myself not to say, “Um,” and continued, “Yes. Lunch. I would like that.”
“Fantastic. And the last thing. You want to get married soon?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
“Are you pregnant?”
I blanched and said firmly, “ No. Absolutely not. I’m not . . . we’re not . . .”
I stopped. Full stop. Screeching-tires-stopped. I resisted the urge to reach for my day planner. I didn’t have it anyway. I’d left it back in Philly. But I have a vague recollection of jotting down a note to get my birth control prescription refilled.
How long ago had that been? I’d been finishing up that run of Peter Pan and we were doing the maximum number of shows a week because it was selling so well. Things had been so busy, and . . . damn it.
“I—”
I closed my gaping mouth and gave her a tight smile. I shook my head and said, “No. Nothing like that.”
Shit. Why was my memory such a blur? This is what happened when you worked multiple jobs with no consistency, and you did the same shows day in and day out. It became really fucking hard to distinguish one day from another.
Mrs. Taylor said, “Okay then. I’ll let you get back to my son.”
I nodded, already a thousand miles away.
“And Bliss?”
I lifted my head and met her cool gaze again.
“No more breaking things, okay?”
“Right.” I gave a pained laugh. “Of course.”
She walked away, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and I should have felt relieved to see her go. I should have been glad when Graham and Rowland came over to
I could have narcolepsy! That would get me out of this question, right? I could just pretend to pass out. Or maybe I could really pass out?
My non-answer must have been enough to confirm things for her because she spun on her heel and started in Garrick’s direction.
I darted around her and held my hands up.
“Mrs. Taylor, wait. We didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her smile gave me chills. “I don’t think you did anything wrong .”
“You don’t?” I was shocked into silence.
“No, dear. My son is the one who has done something wrong.”
I flinched back like she’d slapped me. I had enough doubts about Garrick being with me in my head, all of which seemed to have compounded in the hours since we’d arrived. I didn’t need her adding any more to that. I stood up taller, and in my plain clearance dress, I faced off against her immaculate, no doubt heinously expensive cocktail dress.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Taylor. You’re wrong. Your son loves me. And I love him. We’re both adults, as we were when we met. If you make a big deal out of this now, you’ll only ruin this party and possibly the already unstable relationship you have with your son. He’s twenty-six, almost twenty-seven years old. He has a career and a fiancée, and you’re not going to win any battles by treating him like he’s a kid again. He’s an adult ,” I reiterated, though that was another word that had been said and thought so many times it was beginning to lose its meaning. “We both are. How we met doesn’t matter.”
Her red lips flattened into a line, and her gaze felt sharp enough to slice bread. She made this sound in her throat, not quite a laugh, more like a noise of surprise. “You have a head on your shoulders after all.”
Hey there, backhanded compliment. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other.
She was the one missing vital organs . . . like a heart. She stared at me for a few moments longer, and then smoothly turned her back to where Garrick was standing.
“Two questions, Bliss.”
Did I really just talk her down? Holy crap.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked her nails together and looked away from me as she asked, “Would you like to have lunch on Thursday?”
I was so shocked, I nearly choked on my saliva, which would have totally ruined the whole head-on-your-shoulders moment from a few seconds ago.
I forced myself not to say, “Um,” and continued, “Yes. Lunch. I would like that.”
“Fantastic. And the last thing. You want to get married soon?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
“Are you pregnant?”
I blanched and said firmly, “ No. Absolutely not. I’m not . . . we’re not . . .”
I stopped. Full stop. Screeching-tires-stopped. I resisted the urge to reach for my day planner. I didn’t have it anyway. I’d left it back in Philly. But I have a vague recollection of jotting down a note to get my birth control prescription refilled.
How long ago had that been? I’d been finishing up that run of Peter Pan and we were doing the maximum number of shows a week because it was selling so well. Things had been so busy, and . . . damn it.
“I—”
I closed my gaping mouth and gave her a tight smile. I shook my head and said, “No. Nothing like that.”
Shit. Why was my memory such a blur? This is what happened when you worked multiple jobs with no consistency, and you did the same shows day in and day out. It became really fucking hard to distinguish one day from another.
Mrs. Taylor said, “Okay then. I’ll let you get back to my son.”
I nodded, already a thousand miles away.
“And Bliss?”
I lifted my head and met her cool gaze again.
“No more breaking things, okay?”
“Right.” I gave a pained laugh. “Of course.”
She walked away, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and I should have felt relieved to see her go. I should have been glad when Graham and Rowland came over to
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