“Yeah,” he said, watching me. “Yours?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like to talk about them?” he asked.
I managed a laugh. “Not really. You?”
He shrugged. “You know a little. My parents are … grouchy.” He grimaced. “To be honest, I’m a little worried that they’ll scare you off.”
I looked up, meeting his eyes. “They won’t.” I couldn’t think of anything that would scare me away from this man.
He chuckled. “You sure about that? They’ve always been difficult with anyone I’ve dated.”
I was.
Turned out, I might have underestimated the situation.
78. I Hate These People
I checked my reflection for the tenth time in the mirror above my sink. Smoothing down my hair, I checked my teeth. I was dressed conservatively, but cute—a Krisa jumpsuit paired with jeweled flats. Carter called my name, and I swallowed. “Coming!” I called, running the sink for a moment to buy some time. I shouldn’t be so nervous. Parents loved me. And why wouldn’t they? Carter could have done a lot worse. I tossed some lipstick in the clutch and snapped it shut. Gave myself one last look in the mirror and then pulled open the door.
“Ready?” Carter leaned against the wall, his eyes lifting to me and he smiled. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I let out a nervous breath. “I’m a little stressed,” I confessed.
He smiled, pulling me to him and pressing his lips to mine. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to be late.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I have nothing to be nervous about,” I scolded playfully, shrugging into my jacket and following him into the hall.
“You’ll do fine,” he said, checking his watch.
Still not the words I wanted. I took the hand he offered, and we stepped into the elevator. I blamed the drop of my heart on the quick descent, my nerves humming.
Something was off.
We stepped in the small restaurant, Carter giving our name to the maître d’, my heart sinking when I saw, seated just a few tables inside, the older couple who had interviewed interrogated me for the apartment. The woman’s back was as stiff as it had been in my interview, the man’s face just as dour. I grabbed Carter’s arm and hoped he’d veer right, to the bar, but he saw them too. I’d forgotten for a moment that they were his employers, him recognizing them also.
He steered me in their direction and they looked up at our approach, the woman’s eyes skipping past Carter and landing on me, a glint of recognition in her eyes. I smiled politely and looked away, to the other tables, wondering if Carter’s parents were already there, absently trying to remember the last name of the couple in front of me, in case this chat turned into actual conversation.
But then Carter hugged the woman, and I heard the word Mom cross his lips. And everything stopped in the heartbeat it took for my sluggish brain to put two and two together and finally understand it all.
Carter’s connection to Presa Little.
His job.
His apartment, so much nicer than mine.
He wasn’t just the super. He was the owner. This old couple who had barely let me rent an apartment—he was their son. I snapped to attention and put a little more into my smile, my efforts dampening under their withering stare.
Carter turned, pulling out the closest seat. “Chloe?” he offered, his eyes meeting mine cautiously.
I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab his shirt and drag him outside and yell every question coursing through my mind at him until he confessed everything.
But I didn’t. I smiled graciously and took my seat. I placed my napkin in my lap and nodded a hello to his parents. I sat through the painful first moments where no one spoke and ice water settled in glasses and waiters hovered.
And then, the silence was over. Carter’s mother opened her mouth, and hell poured out.
I’d sat through a few painful dinners in my life. This was the worst. It was my interview, times five. The questions didn’t stop; they peppered at me from across the table, and I wanted to duck for cover, wanted a bathroom break, wished I smoked just for an excuse to escape.
When his father asked about my parents, I paused, glanced down at my menu, this hell not even half over, and debated about my answer. Tried to weigh truthfulness over first impressions. Knew, no matter what happened with Carter and me, they would eventually find out the truth.
“My parents?” I stalled.
“Yes. They work with investment portfolios, isn’t that correct?” Carter’s mother tilted her head and peered at me as if I was a specimen to be cut open.
I considered dodging the question. I hadn’t even told Carter about my parents and their situation. But I didn’t. “He did work with investment portfolios,” I said carefully. “But the SEC has suspended his license. I’m not sure what my father will do now, assuming that he avoids jail time.”
That shut them up. His mother’s mouth fell open a little, her eyes widening. Beside me, Carter inhaled, and his father set down his drink, the glass hitting the table with a loud clink.
I didn’t stop. I told them everything, wincing a little at how cold I sounded when I spoke about my parents. I couldn’t help it. If the last year had shown me anything, it was that my self-centeredness was an inherited trait, and that every I love you from their mouths had been a lie.
“So…” his mother said primly. “Your parents are criminals and you are an … assistant.” She stretched out the final word in such a way that made my job sound as bad as my parents’ crimes.
“Yes.” I took a deep sip of wine, finishing it off. “That’s correct.”
“I see. And the chances of your parents being exonerated are…?” She raised an eyebrow at my empty wine glass, then at me.
“Pretty much nil.” I shrugged.
She sighed, and I glanced at Carter’s father, who had stopped talking about fifteen minutes earlier. His face was stiff, and I looked to his son. It was a mistake. Carter looked hurt, and I couldn’t help but glare a little in response. I wasn’t the only one who’d been secretive about my parents. I had spent our entire relationship with this image in my head of Carter’s life, his upbringing, his future. It certainly hadn’t involved a mother wearing Chanel with a four-carat diamond on her finger, her nose raised higher in the air than Nicole at a staff meeting. Everything I had envisioned … a rough youth, clawing his way to financial independence … all of that was false. The damn man had probably attended a better prep school than me.
And it was right about then, with my dinner plate carefully set down before me, that I realized two things. First, that any worries I’d had over Carter and his future prospects were unfounded.
Second, I wasn’t relieved by that realization. Instead, I was … I stared down at my dinner and tried to process my feelings. I was disappointed. Disenchanted. Not just with Carter, but with myself. I was no longer the fallen society girl who had fallen in love with a poor boy and tossed away her materialism. I was the fallen society girl who would climb right back into her old life, clawing up the chest of her sexy boyfriend.
Much more fairytale. Much less inspirational.
I picked up my fork and tried to find my appetite. Tried to perk up by telling myself that the worst of the evening was over.