Page 48 of For Pleasure Or Worse

The last time I saw my dad was before Christmas, when Mateo had secretly asked him for permission to marry me. Since then I’d received short updates on their holiday spent in South America and proof of life via social media activity. It’s not like he and I had anything to talk about anyway, and any attempt would seem awkward or forced.

Our relationship was formal. I didn’t find a common ground with my dad any time after puberty, and that was right about when he started spending more time at the hospital than he did at the house. Having four teenage daughters menstruating on matched cycles drove him into a fritz of overtime hours and drunk days off.

“Welcome to Villa Russo,” he boasted, leaning down and kissing my cheek, then moving onto Mateo with a firm handshake that clapped and echoed off the atrium in the foyer behind him. A thousand teardrop crystals sparkled off a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” I said. He seemed in a chipper mood, but it was only eight o’clock, and his breath was tainted with the sharp tang of bourbon already. I’d gotten used to that smell, but it still turned my stomach the same way getting sick off a liquor made you never want to drink it again.

Mateo cleared his throat and ushered his parents forward. “John, this is my mother and father, Anna and David."

"Pleasure is mine." My father grinned at the Durans as they gazed up at the house and took it in. It was the self-absorbed smile he wore whenever he got to show off his things.

"Beautiful home," David said, pressing on the crown molding around the door. "You buy this? Build it?"

Mateo laughed and nudged his father along. “Plenty of time for that later, Dad.”

We shuffled down the long corridor hallway to the living room, passing arched doorways that broke off into the familiar nooks. A library, a formal dining room, a large sitting room with cushioned high back chairs in velvet pinks and greens. My mom had a gallery wall of expensive artwork that she switched out quarterly just for shits and giggles as a conversation piece for her haughty guests. The kicker about the sitting room was that no one ever sat in it; it was there to take up the wasted space in the mansion where my parents lived alone with their two dogs and a staff of housekeepers.

"There they are!" my mother crooned across the room, standing from the upholstered sofa in her floor-length blush dress, strappy heels peeking through the slit in the material as she clacked toward us. The cocktail attire for an intimate dinnerin the dining room was a choice that I had no say in. Mom's bracelets jingled as she reached up to fix my hair, tucking the loosely curled strands behind my ears and pulling the rest over my shoulder the way she thought it looked best. I promptly flicked it back.

“Nice to see you again, Sistine,” Anna said. “That color looks great on you.”

"Doesn't it?" my mother volleyed back. "It's so nice to finally have everyone in the same room. It's like a test run before the wedding. But with better food." She laughed at her joke, I winced, the mumbled chuckles from the Durans spoke for themselves, and I looked around for a getaway car in the form of Mateo who was already engulfed in uncomfortable conversation with my father and backed into a corner of his own.

Mia peeked her head through the doorway that separated the dining room from the living room,psstingat me like a cat and waving me in her direction. My mother had corralled the Durans into conversation and I tiptoed away, making it around the corner undetected only to come face-to-face with all three of my sisters in elegant cocktail dresses.

“God, what did I do now?”

"Dad is already toasted." Mia sipped her martini. "I just heard him telling Mateo about the psychology of grocery store layouts."

"Like he's ever been in a grocery store in his life," I snarked. "You'd think a man with a job reliant on sound-mindedness would be less of a blubbering idiot on his days off."

"Our jobs are stressful." Camilla fluffed my hair onto my shoulder just as Mom had and I again tossed it back. "Hospitals aren't for everyone."

"I'm just surprised he's already this far in the bag before dinner," Bella said. "This might be record time for John Russo bowing out of his own party."

"I give him until ten," I said, crossing my arms.

"I'll bet eleven." Bella shrugged.

Camilla inspected a piece of silverware on the table, shining it on the napkin. "Eleven thirty."

"C’mon guys, you know Dad." Mia laughed. "He'll have to take a phone call at some point, and go puke in the bushes by the pool house before coming back for round two."

"We were all doomed from birth," I accepted out loud. "Please, if the three of you love me at all, keep him as far away from Mateo's parents as possible. I have three more months of convincing them I'm suitable for their son."

“Don’t look now, but Dad is challenging Mr. Duran to a game of Operation,” Bella said.

I spun, frantic, but she was only fibbing. My wide, distressed eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor,” Cami added eagerly.

It was in my best interest to remove the threat at the source and put as much space between my parents and Mateo’s as possible for the entire night. Letting them congregate in closed-off conversations was a bad idea. They might realize how starkly different our upbringings were and equate the delusory ivory tower for what I expected in our marriage. Anna already thought I was a step away from useless. Before I could let that happen I slipped back into the living room with Mateo and our parents.

The lull before dinner was the perfect time for a tour.

I strategically tookthe long way through the expansive layout of the house. Even doing the rounds outside, through the garden and around the tennis court. I spent eighteen years of my life here, and yet it was like walkingthrough a place you only see in dreams. Like you know it but you don’t. The halls feel empty, the rooms cold. Even my childhood bedroom where I spent so much of my time hiding, locked away and keeping to myself, didn't feel like safety anymore. A cage with an open door. Sometime in the eight years since I moved out my parents had remodeled it. New off-white paint, neutral furniture, themeless space fillers for yet another guest bedroom. By the time we returned to eat dinner, my father had gone from a boisterous host to a second stage of drunk, sitting at the head of the table, stoically confrontational.

"Did you show them the wine cellar, Natalia?"

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