The O Intention(37)

I open my mouth as Jesse’s fingers dig into my thigh, but it’s not enough to distract me this time. Sadly, I can’t keep my mouth shut. If I could, I would.

“Why do people always expect me to have such an amazing answer? Not everyone wants to be something. Not everyone wants to be a fucking astronaut or a doctor. Why isn’t ‘I just want to live a slow, easy life doing nothing special’ an appropriate answer? If everyone was a doctor or a scientist, there’d be no one left to clean your shit or pour your drink.”

Silence falls and I keep my eyes on Grace, but she refuses to look at me. On the back of my head, I can feel Dad’s judgmental eyes burning gigantic holes into my skull, but I know he cares too much about saving face to call me out in front of Jesse. Thankfully, Mom enters the room with her giant chicken in a dish just at the right time, but unfortunately, she’s not happy with me either. Go figure.

“Are you still swearing, Alix? God, I don’t know where you learned that trash talk, but you are not to bring it into my home. Do you understand?”

Fucking hell, this whole situation is embarrassing. For a moment, you’d swear I’m twelve, not twenty-nine. Alas, it doesn’t matter what age I am. Mom won’t tolerate swearing in her home. Perhaps I should gift her one of my (many) favorite e-books. I smile at the thought of her reading such filth. She’d have a heart attack for sure.

“Sorry.”

With a forgiving nod of the head, she lowers her chicken to the table, pulls off her oven mitts, and drops into her seat. Dad is first to dig in—as per usual—and from there it goes clockwise, making Jesse the last person to get his food. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, when it comes to his turn, he takes a small piece of chicken and an even smaller scoop of vegetables. I don’t comment on it. I’ve kind of lost my appetite too.

“So, Gracie has some exciting news for us,” Mom announces with a lively bounce in her chair.

The pride she feels glows on her features. It practically spills from her pores and contaminates the food. We all look to Grace as she lowers her cutlery and threads her fingers.

“Well… I’m getting married!”

Mom drops her fork just as Dad spits his wine over the table. I’m not sure if it hits my food, but I’m not taking any chances. I push my plate away. I’d rather not eat. Jesse, who sits closest to my father, pushes his plate away too. Then, a huge, and I mean huge, smile stretches my lips.

“To whom?” Mom demands.

“I met a guy when I was in Paris five months ago… and we fell in love.”

“You can’t marry a man you’ve just met, Grace!” Mom protests.

The room falls silent and for once, the heavy tension isn’t because I did something stupid. Grace sits at the end of the table unbothered by my parents shock. For someone who usually isn’t on the receiving end of their wrath, she’s handling it extremely well.

“We haven’t even met him,” Dad points out. “What if we don’t like him?”

Grace shrugs and purses her thin, pink lips before speaking. “It doesn’t matter. I like him—I love him.”

“Marjorie, talk some sense into your daughter.” Dad stabs his fork into a piece of chicken and brings it to his mouth. He rips into his chicken like a caveman, not once taking his eyes off Grace. I’ve always envied Grace and her perfection. She’s always listened to our parents. She’s always done what makes them happy, but now, she’s doing something for herself and I’m the proud one. Good for her.

Mom pushes out from her chair. “Grace, can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?”

If it were me, I’d sigh and drag my heels, but Grace smiles politely and follows Mom without complaint. When they’re gone, Jesse excuses himself and I quickly follow, knowing very well Dad will drag me into a ranting conversation about irrational life choices and their consequences.

I follow Jesse up the wide hallway.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“I’m sure I’ll find it… eventually.”

I stop by a cream door that has a small reef of potpourri nailed to the center of it, but Jesse keeps walking, his eyes searching for a bathroom sign or an obvious indication on where to pee. With a sigh, I push the door open and go inside. Like the rest of the house, it’s exactly as I remember it; cold, sterile and smelling of disinfectant. As I flick on the tap and submerge my hands in water, Jesse enters and shuts the door behind him. There isn’t a lock on the door. My mother has a phobia of locks and had them all removed when they bought the house.