So why can’t I think of anything other than doing it again?
Determined to get my act together and show up for Mr. Long-Term—gracious, elegant, and appreciative of his time—I march into my closet, find a matching pair of heels, swipe on my trusty Red Dahlia lipstick, and I’m ready to go.
For good measure, I grab my empty gratitude journal, determined to get right with the universe, and jot down a single sentence:Today, I’m grateful for self-control.
I slip it into my purse, hoping manifesting really works.
Except when I swing open the front door again, Mom is standing, stone-faced, on the other side like a surprise test. “Ugh, why are you here? I’m on my way out.” I pout, impishly. “Seriously, I don’t have time for this.”
Her sensibly pink lips purse judgmentally as she steps past me, saying,Make time,without using the words.
With my hand still on the door handle, I let out a huge sigh, already pre-annoyed.
“I understand that you’re busy, what with the wedding, and your new beaux…”There it is.She blinks repeatedly, summoning all the melodrama. “However, Ebony Grace, it’s vitally important that you answer when I reach out to you. Anything could’ve happened to you—”
“Oh my God, Mom, stop!” I release the door, letting it slam closed, and stomp back into the living room, where she’s already made herself at home on the sofa and is reaching for the remote, no doubt to turn on some reality TV show.
Anything could’ve happened.
Ugh.
In other words, he—as in the fake beau that I’ve told her nothing about because he doesn’t exist—could’ve hurt me. I could have been “lying in a gutter somewhere,” as she loves to say.
I’d love to know why this mysterious gutter is always her go-to final resting place for me.
“Yes, I’ve been ignoring your calls for precisely this reason.” I throw up my hands and let them drop limply at my sides. “You never know when to quit. Why should I talk to you when I already know what you’re going to say?”
Mom raises a thick, penciled-in eyebrow, giving me a glassy stare. “I highly doubt you know what I’m going to—”
I clear my throat, interrupting her to get into character. “‘Ebony, tell me about your new fella.’ ‘How’s everything with Cornelia…and Julian?’ ‘I know you said you didn’t plan on attending the cotillion, but…’” My smile slips. “Fill in any number of reasons you’ve come up with as to why I need to be there.”
“Well, it’s a time-honored tradition,” she reasons.
Proving my point.
Snapping my fingers, I flash her mybut wait, there’s morestare. “Still a hard no on the cotillion, but…we can’t forget my personal favorite Mom-ism, the one you were likely planning to throw in a the end—like that wasn’t the entire reason you called.Wait for it…” I dig deep, twisting my face into a mask of shame and hopelessness. I definitely get this from her.“‘Did you hear that Julian and that hussy are expecting?’” A smile stretches across my face as I curtsy like a good little debutante.
In classic Eleanor King form, Mom’s brown eyes snag on my not-so-sensible red lips and bright yellow sundress. On the thin straps and the deep neckline exposing as much of my gold-glitter-dusted cleavage as I can get away with at brunch. A sneaky bout of joy nestles in my chest as her expression tightens, her laser vision measuring the inches between my hem, barely brushing my thighs, and my knees.
Oh, she’s itching to pick apart every detail of my look, but she hits me with the deadpan, supposedly unimpressed “I resent that.”
“So do I.” I laugh.
For all of five seconds, she sits there, beautifully fuming in opulent jewels and a pristine pink Cornelia-esque jacquard dress like it’s not a gazillion degrees outside, before she proves me right. “Well, are you going to tell me about your young man, or not?”
Or notwould be so amazing right now.
The last thing I want to do after posting about dating online is fess up to fabricating a pretend suitor, then be forced into a deep dive on the seriousness of lying to a loved one.
No thanks.
Plus, it’ll only prolong the inevitable questions about my dates. I’ve already seen—and memorized—her dummy alphanumeric PopShot handle.Who else is out there with a facelessaccount, faithfully posting old debutante photos of me, Mom? Tryharder.
“It didn’t work out,” I say simply, casually. Just one of your run-of-the-mill, surface-level situationships.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.
Then again, Eleanor King has never been direct about her disappointment. So, naturally, instead of asking about Julian and Nora, she again reaches for the TV controller on my coffee table, aims it at the television, and, after it turns on, says into the remote, clearly enunciating, “Luxe Ladies of Ellswood.”
