Page 44 of Old Money
She came back quickly that first time—maybe ten minutes later. I remember, she said something about the salad not being out yet, and that she’d just pop out again real quick. By the time she returned, they were serving the soup. Even then, she didn’t take her seat. She just leaned over it, resting her forearms on the back of the chair.
“All good?” she asked. “You need anything?”
“What? No.” I was instantly defensive.
“Aw, babydoll, I’m standing you up,” she said in a wheedling tone. “Are you lonesome over here?”
“No,”I protested. “No, I’m totally fine.”
She leaned closer, glancing at the others at the table—all ensconced in their own conversations.
“Patrick’s just having a bad night,” she said, dropping into a whisper again. “Fighting with his mom or something.”
“About the martini?”
She paused.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.”
A server brushed by with a tray of soup bowls. Caitlin stood, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
“Listen, five minutes,” she said. “For real.”
It was more like forty. The soup was long gone by the time she returned, and half the table had finished their entrees. I sat before my untouched slab of pale chicken breast and oversteamed vegetable medley, sinking into what my mother called a “grade A sulk.”
I felt the cool weight of Caitlin’s arm on my shoulders as she slid around the back of my chair, finally taking her seat.
“Honey, I’m home!” she trilled. “Aw, sweetie, you didn’t have to wait for me to eat.”
“I didn’t,” I groused. “I’m just not hungry.”
My tone was so sullen that it would’ve gotten me a warning at school. It didn’t seem to register with Caitlin. She took a long drink from her sparkling water.
“I don’t blame you,” she said, eyeing the pallid chicken on her plate. “Gag me.”
It stung, somehow—the way she wasn’t noticing my foul mood. I crossed my arms, although it made the dress feel even tighter. I turned my face away, in case I started crying.
“You don’t have to keep checking on me,” I said, not looking at her. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Anxiety pinched me between the ribs—I’d gone too far. I’d let my mouth get away from me again, and said the most babyish, embarrassing thing. No wonder Caitlin kept running away. Ofcourseshe didn’t want to sit chatting with me. She probably couldn’t stand me. And now I’d made it worse by deliberately being rude.
I whipped around, already spewing apologies—but Caitlin wasn’t even looking at me. She was grinning at Patrick, whowas two tables away, reclining in his chair, the way boys did in class. He mouthed something to Caitlin that I couldn’t make out, and she tossed her head back in peals of muted laughter. She replied with a silent “No way!” and gave him a scandalized look as she reached for her glass and took another deep sip. I saw then how flushed she was—blushing all over, from her cheeks to her clavicle. My stomach tumbled over as I caught a glimpse of a small, ruddy mark on the side of her neck.
“Do you and Patrick have sex?”
Again, the words flew out of my mouth of their own volition. Caitlin lurched forward, eyes popping, as though I’d just vomited all over the table.
“Did you really just ask me that?”
I shook my head, speechless. It made Caitlin laugh even harder.
“What is this?” she cackled. “Truth or Dare?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, all the blood in my body surging up to my head. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
“Are we doing Spin the Bottle next?” Caitlin said, still overcome with laughter.
