I hate this for him. Hate this for us. I want to leave right this second and skip the way tonight is going to end in tears.
But I promised.Yes, and.
Stellar signed off our text conversation an hour ago with the perfect sentiment.
Good luck. Die well.
“About that. I’m worried we’re getting into a prom night situation, what with the intense buildup and the repeated use of the word ‘perfect.’ And the tie. How ’bout we lower our expectations ten points on a scale of ten.”
He passes a hand across his eyes. How he’s able to convince himself this is excitement, instead of terror, is beyond me.
“Warm-up time. Practice something to tell your dad. Get the nerves out.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, a wild look in his eye. “I’m developing a business plan with my friend Lyle. It was shortlisted for the company’s annual pitch competition. We’re going to—” He breaks off, eyes on mine.
I blink. “Are you… telling your parents about your pitch?” I venture oh so carefully.
He runs a finger across his collar. He looks the way I feel when I’m checking for stress hives, hope and misery leaking from his very pores. “I know we said we wouldn’t. But tonight’s my chance to impress Dad.”
That news goes down like an unchewed baseball: hard. Painful. Tobin’s planning to break our agreement, and he didn’t tell me, and he’s doing it all for the person who hurts him, instead of the one who loves him. The presentation isn’t for another three daysand already it’s toying with us, threatening to knock us down like so many Lego figurines.
“I wish we’d discussed this first, Tobe. I can skip tonight, if you want? Or maybe leave early when you start talking about it?”
“No, stay. Please,” he blurts. “You don’t have to tell me yours. I know you wouldn’t sandbag my pitch, and this close to the competition it doesn’t matter anyway. But Dad won’t understand why I can’t explain.”
True. Tor absolutely would not understand anything that wasn’t about himself.
I clasp Tobin’s sweaty palms in mine.
“So let him misunderstand. Or we can bail! You could say we’re coming down with something.”
“Please, Diz. I gotta tell him. That stuff is what he cares about. What makes him happy.”
He doesn’t want to hear that Tor won’t care. He just needs me to say yes, the way he’d say yes to me if I asked him to come to dinner with Amber.
I wrap my arms around him. His heart kicks hard, right through his suit. “Okay. I’ll try to go to the bathroom at strategic times, or something. But tell your dad because it makesyouhappy, Tobe. Okay?”
He nods into my hair. “Right. You’re right.”
Tobin’s mom bursts out the front door, dressed to the nines in a slinky hot pink wrap number. Even her apron is sexy—a fitted, frilly thing in coordinating shades of peach and petal.
I picture Marijke at her professional-grade sewing machine late last night, sweating over layers of ruffles while dreaming of the perfect outfit for the perfect dinner that leads to the perfect reunion with her perfectly rotten husband.
Nausea swirls, green and black, deep in my soul.
“Tobin! Liz!” Marijke calls, waving from the porch. “Come and help set up!” Her accent gets stronger when she’s stressed out. The tighter she winds herself, the more Tobin will knock himself out trying to make everything okay, and the harder they’ll both fall when Tor predictably bounces.
Tabarnak.
I want to lock them both in therapy jail. They can apply for parole when they’ve completed their Narcissists 101 course.
Marijke dispatches Tobin to wipe down the patio furniture and sweep the deck. I pull kitchen duty, loading trays while she arranges bursting plates of smoked salmon and crudités.
Asking her a weird question will make me feel less sick with dread. It might even put a crack in this in-law ice big enough not to freeze over by the next time I see her.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she says, trying a radish rosette this way and that, balancing it in a shape that might catch a straying husband’s heart.
