Thinking About You

by Monica Murphy

  “Sounds good, babe,” I say gently, my entire body aching with the need to touch her. Console her. She seems sad. Restless. I don’t like it. But there’s nothing I can do about it. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.” She hits a button and she’s gone.

  Leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts for the rest of the night.

  “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Evie grumbles as we climb into her car, both of us slamming the doors quickly so we don’t get doused with the endless rain that’s been falling the last few days. It’s a Saturday morning the end of November and we’re getting a late start, but at least she’s going with me, so there is that.

  “I need you there for moral support,” I tell her as I put on my seatbelt. Leaning back, I watch her until she looks up at me. “You do know how incredibly grateful I am that you’re going with me.”

  More grumbling from Evie as she starts her car. Hers is a beautiful, newer Mercedes Benz, a sporty cream-colored two-door that must have cost a fortune. Her father gave it to her for her last birthday, and thank God she hasn’t wrecked it.

  Yet.

  “I’m even more grateful that you’re driving,” I continue, staring at the wipers that whip back and forth across the windshield. “You know how I hate traveling in the rain.”

  “You are like a little old woman, I swear,” Evie says with a slight shake of her head. “Wearing your glasses, peering over the steering wheel, complaining when you have to drive in the dark or in the rain.”

  Her words don’t hurt my feelings. She’s been complaining about my old woman driving ways for years. “I know you don’t want to go either,” I say.

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  It’s because we’re going to my parents’ estate for the night. More like I’ve been summoned, and I’m bringing Evie with me to use as defense. Having someone else around tends to make my mother behave better. When I’m alone, she launches into a full scale scolding every single time. If it’s not my hair, it’s my clothes, or my job, or my choice of friends, or my flat or my lack of a boyfriend or…

  Whatever she can find, she will criticize me for it. It’s exhausting. And I’m not in the mood to deal with her, especially considering she’s not happy about me keeping up my so-called relationship with Cannon.

  So-called because truly, we don’t see each other. He’s so busy, traveling and practicing and doing all of those football things, we rarely talk. We’ve only FaceTimed twice after that first one where we did such dirty things on camera—I still shudder just thinking about it—and he was so tired both times, we only talked for a few minutes before he ended the calls.

  We text a lot though, which is reassuring. I see him on the internet, playing his games. He sent me flowers, once to the gallery, another time to my flat, which was nice. But we haven’t had a real face-to-face conversation, haven’t talked, haven’t done anything that resembles relationship-type stuff in a while.

  If I were Evie, I’d say the relationship is doomed.

  Before I get too sad over it, I need to change the subject.

  “Did I tell you George will be there?” I’m trying to lighten the mood so Evie won’t think about my mother—I swear they’re mortal enemies, it’s so strange—but she whips her head around so fast I’m afraid she might hurt herself, glaring at me when she comes to a stop at a red light.

  “Your brother will be there this weekend?” Her voice is ice cold, as is the gleam in her dark blue eyes while she continues to stare at me.

  “Um…” I’m suddenly nervous. “Yes?”

  “I hate him.” She punches the steering wheel with her fist, wincing like she might’ve actually hurt herself this time. “Seriously, he’s a giant prick, Susanna. If I’d known he was going to be there, I would’ve said no.”

  “Oh, come on, George isn’t that bad.” I don’t understand her over-the-top reaction. I know they weren’t particularly close, but I didn’t think they hated each other. “I thought you two got along.” Though they rarely interact.

  “He’s a total pompous ass. He’s always been terrible toward me. He treats me like shit!” She glances around, squirming in her seat. “I could probably turn around here and take you back to your flat—”

  “No.” I grab her arm, desperation making me do…desperate things. I give her arm a firm shake, like I’m trying to shake some sense into her. “Absolutely not. You’re going with me. You have to.”

  “But I don’t want to.” She jerks her arm out of my hold, giving it a rub, making me feel awful. I probably squeezed too hard. “Come on, Susanna. Don’t make me do this.”

  “You promised, Evie. You promised you would go with me.” I pause, letting my words hit her hard. “Remember?”

  Evie goes still, and then she sighs dramatically, her shoulders drooping, her demeanor slipping into surrender mode. We never back down from a promise to each other. It’s the one thing we maintain. Breaking promises would cause sudden death to our friendship.

  And neither of us wants to risk that.

  “Fine. You’re right. I promised.” She sounds sad. Yet fierce. “I’ll do this, but you owe me.”

  “Owe you what?” I ask warily. We’ve had these sorts of conversations before, and I’m always the one who ends up owing her. It’s awful, because her demands are never small. She always needs me to bail her out of a sticky situation, no questions asked.

  It’s the worst.

  “Whatever I need, whenever I need you, you have to be there.” She points a finger at me, her expression one of pure determination. “If I have to suffer this entire weekend with your insufferable family, then I’m going to put you through equal torture. Someday. I promise.”

  “Fine,” I say with an exasperated sigh. I don’t know what she could expect of me that would be as torturous as her spending time with my mother and I guess my brother too, but we’ll see.

  I’m sure Evie can come up with something.

  “There you are,” my mother coos as Evie and I make our entrance into the house hours later, both of us dripping on the aging rug in the foyer since we got caught in a torrential downpour on the way into the house. Neither of us thought to bring an umbrella, which was stupid. “I was getting worried.”

  “The rain is terrible,” I tell her while I shed my raincoat, as does Evie. My mother’s latest maid takes the coats from us, and when I tell her thank you, she curtsies, barely meets my gaze, and then dashes away, like she’s scared.

  With my mother as her employer, I don’t doubt for a minute that she’s terrified.

  The moment the maid is gone, Mother pulls me into a stiff embrace, her cool cheek pressed against mine for the briefest second before she releases me, though she keeps her hands on my shoulders as her contemplative gaze rakes over me. Assessing my appearance, as per the usual.

  “The weather held us up a bit,” I tell her.

  “Mmm. Hmm. I figured with Evie’s mad driving skills, you’d be here much sooner.” Mother smiles, nodding at Evie, who merely glowers in return.

  A compliment wrapped in an insult—that’s my mother for you.

  “Where’s Father?” If he were here, he’d soften the mood a bit. He’s so much kinder than my mother, he always has been. Tolerant, fun, and with a keen sense of humor. Patient. Oh, so patient.

  He adores Evie, who loves him in return. It’s quite touching, how sweet they are to each other.

  “He went hunting with the neighbors. He should be back before dinner.” Mother clasps her hands together, her gaze going from me to Evie and back to me again. “George should be here soon. And he’s bringing a friend.”

  “A friend?” Evie asks, her voice unnaturally high. I send her a look, but she’s solely focused on Mother.

  “A young woman he’s calling a friend, but I’m hopeful she’s more than that.” My mother looks like she’s going to squeal and bounce in delight, she’s so happy at the thought of my brother bringing home a woman he cares about so much he’s willin
g to let her meet his parents. “Isn’t this marvelous news?”

  “Marvelous,” Evie says, hitching her travel bag strap higher onto her shoulder and starting for the stairwell. “Fantastic. Bloody brilliant. I hope George is thrilled to marry the old bag.”

  Old bag? What in the world?

  Evie runs up the stairs before I can say anything, her boots extra loud as they go stomp, stomp, stomp up the rattling staircase, and both Mother and I watch her silently until she disappears down the hallway.

  “That was—odd,” Mother says, sending me a questioning glance. “Why would she act in such a way?”

  “I’m not sure.” Maybe because she hates George with the fiery passion of a thousand suns? Not that I ever saw them have any sort of interaction where hate could be involved. Hmm.

  Or maybe it’s because she’s secretly attracted to my brother and is pissed that he’s found someone else?

  The imaginary lightbulb that suddenly clicks on above my head makes me think it’s the latter.

  “Well, I don’t suppose it matters what your friend thinks. What matters is what your brother’s future wife thinks.” Mother smiles, and I swear she’s the happiest I’ve seen her in a while. “And I think this young lady sounds promising.”

  “So George has told you about her?” What a surprise, considering he doesn’t like to give her any details about his love interests. I don’t tell her much either.

  “Not really.” She smiles. “You know how private he is.”

  But wait a minute. She hasn’t even met this so-called friend yet, and our mother is already calling her George’s future wife? “Do you know her name?”

  “Lady Priscilla Fischer. Youngest daughter of a marquess.” Mother beams. “I did a little investigating. She’s a descendant of a German prince. I hear she’s distantly related to Prince Albert.”

  Who’s been dead for over one hundred and fifty years. “Wouldn’t that make her a distant relative of ours?”

  “No, darling, we’re related to the queen through Victoria,” Mother says with exasperation.

  I don’t bother reminding her that Victoria and Albert were married and had children, despite the fact that they were first cousins. Nobility doesn’t talk about the sordid past, considering it’s loaded with various incestuous relationships. She knows this.

  She just chooses not to acknowledge it.

  “How about you? How are you doing? Still putting on that little charade with the American?” She waves a hand and I dutifully follow her into the sitting room, where a tray laden with a teapot, cups and various frosted cakes awaits us. “Would you like some tea? Perhaps a little snack?”

  I join her on the settee, watching as she pours me a cup of tea and adds a dollop of milk. I’m dying for one of those sugary cakes, but she’ll probably make a remark about my overly abundant figure and how I should watch my weight.

  I don’t want to hear it, so I don’t reach for a snack. I’ll sneak a cake later, from the kitchen.

  “Well?” she asks once she’s handed me over the cup and I still haven’t answered. “Are you still involved in your little relationship with him?” Her nose wrinkles at the word relationship.

  And now my nose is wrinkling, remembering how she called our relationship a charade only a moment ago. Only I would let something like that fly by and not even acknowledge it. She’s so cruel sometimes, and the saddest thing is that I’m used to her behavior.

  “Yes, we are,” I say coolly, wishing for about the hundredth time that Cannon could come back to England and meet my parents in an official manner.

  My mother sets her cup and saucer on the table in front of us with a loud clank. “Susanna, really. When are you going to stop pretending you could have something with this man and concentrate on your reality?”

  Her words make me sit up straighter, automatically going on the defensive. “Cannon is my reality,” I insist, though I’m secretly starting to have more and more doubts as the days slip by and I don’t really talk to him.

  Not that I can ever admit that to her. My mother would jump on that knowledge and convince me to end things with him by Sunday afternoon. She still wields that much power over me.

  Does that make me weak?

  When it comes to my mother, yes.

  “He’s stringing you along. I don’t think he knows how to end this silly dalliance. He’s afraid he’ll hurt your feelings,” she says, like she has so much knowledge about Cannon and how he thinks.

  “You don’t even know him,” I protest, and she silences me with a look.

  “I know men like him. They’re all the same.” She sips from her cup, staring at me from over the rim of her fine bone china. My eyes are the same shade as hers, icy and cold when they want to be. “He wants to let you down easy.”

  This is a familiar argument. One we’ve had before. Maybe I should say something different to distract her.

  “Perhaps he’ll try to ghost me,” I tell her, and she frowns.

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  I love it when I can tell her something she doesn’t understand. Petty, yes, but oh so satisfying.

  “When someone just stops calling you, texting you, seeing you, whatever. They just vanish from your life one day with no warning, no explanation. Like a ghost. Poof.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.

  “Ah. That does make sense.” She nods, and I know she’s storing that info into her brain to pull out later. Maybe she’ll use it on George and surprise him that she even knows such a thing. “He could do that to you, darling. Just one day stop talking to you.”

  I can’t imagine sweet, thoughtful Cannon ghosting me, but who knows? I only spent a few days with him. I have no idea who he really is, or what he thinks. Or truly what he wants. “I think he’d have the courtesy to tell me it’s not going to work out between us.”

  “Courtesy.” Mom sniffs, like I said an unfamiliar word. “Who’s courteous anymore? No young people I know. You’re all too busy playing on your phones or chatting on social media, or acting like you know better than everyone else.”

  Ah, my mother’s favorite thing is to act like she knows better than everyone else. I rarely do that to her, and she knows it. That’s why it’s always so easy for her to push me around and tell me what to do.

  I’m about to say something, protest her generalizing my generation and whatnot, when my brother suddenly enters the sitting room, holding hands with a tall, beautiful woman who looks like a model.

  “Mother, Susanna.” His rich, deep voice is the slightest bit shaky, and I know he’s nervous. “How are you?”

  “George, my darling!” Mother leaps to her feet and practically runs to him, pulling him into an embrace and forcing him to let go of his new girlfriend’s hand.

  Reminding good ol’ Lady Priscilla that she will always come second in his life if Mother has anything to say about it.

  “Such an enthusiastic greeting.” George laughs nervously, pulling out of her embrace. He returns to Priscilla’s side, resting his hand at the small of her back and guiding her toward us. “Mother, I want to introduce you to Lady Priscilla Fischer.”

  “Priscilla. So lovely to meet you.” Mother takes her hand and holds it, as if she’s waiting for Priscilla to curtsy. But she doesn’t, of course. My mother isn’t the queen, though she believes she’s the queen of her castle.

  God, I wish Evie were here right now, watching this unfold. She would be laughing her arse off.

  “And this is my sister,” George says after Mother and Priscilla are done with their pleasantries. “Susanna, this is Priscilla.”

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” Priscilla says as she enthusiastically shakes my hand. Her smile is wide, her teeth blindingly white. “George has told me so much about you.”

  A blank smile appears on my face. I wish I could say the same about her, but I can’t. George hasn’t mentioned her at all. “I’m glad you were able to join us this weekend.”

  “Oh, me too! I’m thrilled to be a
ble to celebrate your parents’ wedding anniversary with the family,” Priscilla says.

  Wait, it’s their anniversary weekend? How could I forget? Oh, I’m sure my mother is absolutely furious at my father that he’s out hunting in the rain with the neighbors, instead of spending time with her.

  This ought to make for an interesting weekend.

  “You must give me every detail,” Evie says the moment I enter the bedroom we’re sharing. She refuses to sleep anywhere but in my room, and thankfully I have two double beds. She firmly believes my family’s estate is haunted, and it might very well be, though the ghosts leave me alone.

  “Every detail about what?” I ask as I quietly shut the door behind me. I’d planned on trying to take a nap, but from the current state Evie seems to be in, I can tell my nap plans will have to wait.

  Evie’s hair is sticking up every which way, like she’s clawed her fingers through it the entire time I’ve been downstairs with Mother, and her eyes are a little wild, darting here and there as she nervously chews on her lower lip. If I didn’t know her better, I’d almost wonder if she was having some sort of anxiety attack. Or perhaps a seizure.

  She’s looking quite unhinged.

  “Every detail about your brother’s new girlfriend, of course.” The tone of her voice is one big duh, like I should know what she’s asking for. “What’s she like?”

  “She’s very nice,” I say as I grab my duffel bag from the floor and throw it on my bed, unzipping it so I can pull out the black cardigan I packed. The old house is drafty, and the bedroom wing in particular is extra cold.

  “Very nice? That’s it? That’s all you can say?” she asks incredulously.

  I turn to face her. Evie’s standing in front of me with her hands on her hips and a hostile expression on her face. Clearly my earlier suspicions are more than confirmed. My best friend has a thing for my older brother.