Page 70 of Hot and Bothered
Iclutched my messenger bag, fingers curling tight around the straps. It was the bag Evan had bought me that first day, along with the dress and ballet flats I was wearing. I’d paid him back the moment I could, of course, but I still felt like I was in his debt.
That feeling only increased tenfold as I walked into the restaurant to find my mother and father already seated and looking at menus. They had insisted on choosing the place. It was one of their favorites, of course, which meant I’d never be able to afford any dish they served. My parents would no doubt insist on paying for me. Which meant I’d be relying on them. Again.
Seeing their faces again reminded me I’d had to rely on other people my whole life.
I had messaged them to suggest we meet at a restaurant that was less upscale, but they’d ignored my suggestion, simply texting me a time and a place. They’d never taken my opinions into account before. I didn’t know why I’d expected them to start now.
I took a steadying breath and forced my hands to uncurl, easing my tight grip on my bag. I told myself over and over again that I could do this. I could face them and stand my ground. I was a different person now. I wasn’t the obedient little girl stuck under their thumb anymore.
I walked over to their table. They looked up from their menus. Their facial expressions didn’t change. They still had that same cool, composed, and slightly haughty air to them.
“Alice.” My father stood and put a hand on my shoulder, patting a few times.
“Father,” I said in return, nodding my head in greeting. I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I thought it did.
My mother stood as well and leaned forward to press her cheek to mine with a kiss noise. I returned it.
“Thank you for coming,” my father said.
“Take a seat,” my mother said primly.
There were no bear hugs from my father, no bright smiles from my mother. Not that I’d expected any.
Once we were all seated, I waited for them to start.
My father was as aloof and distant as always, already going back to perusing the menu options even though he must have known what they offered, considering he had business meetings here at least once a week.
My mother contemplated me with a shrewd expression, her lips pressed together.
Neither of them spoke. I didn’t want to break first, didn’t want to be the one to end this stalemate, but I hated the silence. My shoulders rose higher and higher with every passing second, until they nearly touched my ears.
“What did you want to talk about?” I finally asked.
“I think you know,” my father replied, not even looking up from his menu.
There were lots of reasons they could be upset with me. Running away from the wedding, foremost, but also for telling my sister off and refusing to come home.
I supposed it was all the same. I’d disrespected them, humiliated them.
“I know you’re mad at me—” I started to say.
My mother let out a sniff, too ladylike to be a snort, but close enough to tell me I’d just made an understatement of the century. My father gave her a sharp look. She frowned at him, but pressed her lips together and went silent. My father cleared his throat.
“We’re disappointed in your behavior,” he said. “We’re disappointed in the decisions you’ve made.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, as was my first instinct whenever my father gave me that displeased look. I snapped my mouth shut before I could. Maybe I had disappointed them, but I’d only been acting in my own best interests. I wasn’t going to apologize for doing what was best for me.
But I did feel bad about one thing.
“I know I must have made you worry. I didn’t plan on it. I just—” My mouth went dry.
How could I explain how trapped I’d felt, how the only way I could think to escape was to run away? How could I explain that the thought of marrying someone I didn’t love made my chest clench like it was being squeezed between two vises? How could I explain that the thought of living the life they’d chosen for me made me want to scream until my throat bled?
Maybe I didn’t have to explain. Maybe I didn’t own them any explanation.
“The only thing I’m sorry for,” I started, “is not having the courage to tell you no.”
Both their eyes went wide.
