Page 30 of Between Desire and Denial
“Well, hell, anything is better than here, right?”
Maybe two years had been too long. “Look, can we talk about Dad and—”
“Oh, good.” My stepmother walked in, her wavy hair pinned up and her suit jacket still perfectly in place. “You found your brother. Knox, do you want any lunch?”
“I ate,” he grumbled and then turned his back to us. She gave me a look as if she was annoyed and waved me out.
I touched his bed before I left, hoping he would be able to feel me trying to connect. “I’ll be back, Knox. Maybe we can go to Fitches?”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. Something was very wrong with my brother, and I needed to find out what.
I walked silently down the steps and followed Georgette’s heels clicking on the dark wood floors into the living room. “Would you like a drink, Olive? I have tea or—”
“What the hell is going on with Knox?”
Chapter Eleven
OLIVE
The silencein the room was so loud I might have asked for headphones had I not wanted to witness my stepmother’s obvious discomfort.
She floundered for a whole second before she straightened and smoothed her black work pants. “Oh, so no niceties, I guess? You want to just jump right into your theatrics? Because I don’t. I’m not in the mood today. I’m not going to tolerate you being emotional for no reason while you’re visiting me.”
“I’m not visitingyou. You were too busy, remember? I’m visiting Knox. And obviously there’s something wrong.”
“Honestly,” she huffed and turned toward the fridge like my questions were all too much for her. “Why is your first reaction to think something’s even wrong?”
“Is that a joke? Have you looked at him? Two years ago, he was twice the size he is now and—”
“So he lost some weight.” She shrugged. “I wish I could lose a few pounds.” Her canned laugh skittered around the kitchen, and I stood there in shock as I took in the clean counters, the expensive art on the walls, and the fancy table settings even though no one would be coming to dinner.
“This isn’t a joke about weight, Georgette. I’m asking you about my brother. What’s wrong?” I whispered, trying my best not to scream at her.
She rolled her eyes again and turned to the cabinet I knew was full of liquor. “I guess you’re going to make me deal with this instead of your father. In that case, I’ll opt for liquor.”
She took a swig of pure vodka before she got a glass out to pour more than two fingers. My stepmother didn’t drink hard liquor except at home where she could hide how she downed it. She poured me a glass, too, and slid it my way.
I crossed my arms, not willing to drink with her. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She scoffed like I was being ridiculous. “How about nothing? Don’t make a mountain out of a mole hill. Jesus, why are you always so dramatic?”
“This is concern, not dramatics,” I clarified without raising my voice, though it shook with rage.
“You werealwaystoo concerned.” She waved me off. “Was it those theatre classes and programs we allowed you to stay in after your mother passed? And then you would write those books with so much drama in them, I wondered what was wrong with you.”
“No need to wonder anymore. I’ve been gone, living on my own for years.”
“Exactly. You’ve been gone, and we’ve been living here as a family without you while you flounce around with that Keelani girl doing God knows what and wearing those stupid flowers in your hair.” She waved at the small plumeria I had behind my ear.
I’d confided in her once that it felt like a connection to my mother, that I enjoyed having a bright color in my life even on a gloomy day. I offered her one once, but she’d wrinkled her nose and told me they would look immature on her as a lawyer. And since that day, she’d reminded me of her disdain for them.
Still, I took the high road because it wasn’t about us today. “Kee has provided me with a lot of opportunities, Georgette. It was a college job that allowed me to travel. I wanted to see the world. You know that. So if we could focus on Knox—"
“Whatrealopportunities? You come back here after two years to tell us what? Did you even get that ridiculous degree you were so obsessed with because one professor thought you showed promise?”
Her words were pointed and cruel. They hit fast and precise too. I remembered how she’d laughed at me that night when I’d told them all I was changing my major. It was the night I knew I wouldn’t be back to visit. “I’m working on it.” My confidence shrank as I answered her.
“Great. You’re working on becoming a journalist. God. Don’t you realize you have a status to uphold as a Monroe? Your father is a major player in Hollywood. That makes you part of it too,” she grumbled into her tumbler before rounding the island to go sit on the barstool. “We raised you to be so much more than this. Then, you come to a party and announce you’re changing majors.”
