Dangerous Engagement (Wedlocked Trilogy Book 1)

by Charlotte Byrd

  “How's your day going?” I ask, taking a seat across from her at the clothed table.

  This is the kind of place where all of the waiters are old men who know way too much about wine and not enough about cocktails.

  “I got my nails done this morning,” my mother says after giving me two air kisses, careful not to mess up her makeup. “As you can see, they did not do a very good job.”

  I look down at her nails and don't see a single thing wrong with them.

  “Right over here.” She points to her index finger. “Look closer at the cuticle.”

  “Oh, yes.” I nod demonstrably even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  After we place our drink orders, she intertwines her fingers, careful not to put her elbows on the table, and peers at me.

  “Your father is not well,” she says.

  The statement hits me like a blow to the stomach.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. "Did something happen?”

  “No, but he is not healthy. He's okay right now, but he has heart issues.”

  “I know that already,” I say. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.” She shrugs. “I just want to create some context for you.”

  I take a sip of my martini and wait for a further explanation.

  My mother has always been an enigma. I rarely understand where she's coming from or what she means. Ever since I was a little girl, I felt like we have existed on two separate plateaus, seeing each other, hearing each other but not really interacting with one another in any meaningful way.

  “I don't know how to tell you this, Aurora, because we don't talk about things that really matter, do we?” Mom says, running her fingers through her perfectly coiffed hair.

  “Can you just tell me what's going on?”

  I don't know if she's trying to be tactful or just trying to build up anticipation on purpose, but I am running out of patience either way.

  “Your father's business is not doing very well. He has been taking a number of shortcuts, the details of which I cannot go into at this point. But I just wanted to tell you that things are not as they seem and your relationship with Henry is not coming at a good time.”

  I stare at her, unsure as to how to react at first. But then anger starts to rise up.

  “How dare you?" I ask her. “How dare you say that to me? My relationship with Henry does not exist on your timetable. I am sorry that there are problems in the business, problems you never bothered to tell me about before. But I don't understand what my relationship with Henry has to do with Tate Media. Or why you're even so concerned about it.”

  “Honey," my mother says.

  And if you know anything about my mother, she does not mean it as a term of endearment.

  "Honey, I worry about you. What do you really know about Henry?”

  “What is there to know?” I ask her. “He’s a teacher and a writer and that’s it.”

  “But what if there’s more?” she asks, tilting her head and narrowing her gaze.

  “People are complicated, Aurora. You don't seem to know that. You have always buried your head in books where everything works out in the end, one way or another. The characters go through predictable ups and downs, they learn the lessons, or they figure out a crime, or whatever the heck happens but, in the end, everything is resolved. Right?”

  “I'm sorry, Mother,” I say. “Is this conversation about Daddy’s health? Your business? My relationship with Henry? Or my poor choices when it comes to my studies? What are we talking about here exactly because you are going all over the place?”

  “You are impossible,” she says, taking a sip of her martini and tapping her long nails on the table.

  Our food has arrived but neither of us have tried a bite.

  “I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to talk to you about all of these things. They are all related because they all concern you,” she says.

  I sit back in my chair and wait for her to explain.

  “Our business has taken a turn and there are certain issues that have to be resolved. I cannot go into it anymore than this here. I probably can't even tell you anymore than this at all because the less you know, the better.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” I say quietly.

  “I have already told you my concerns about Henry and seeing what you two were doing did not alleviate them.”

  My blood runs cold as she mentions what had just happened.

  Being the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant that she is, I did not expect for her to actually bring that up and her statement comes from left field.

  I feel my cheeks get flushed and I force myself to take a few deep breaths.

  “I know that it is not very tactful of me to bring it up, but I saw what I saw and I am concerned. I am your mother and when I was dating, we never took things that far.”

  I take a deep breath, struggling for air. At this rate I will need an oxygen mask to get enough air.

  “Mother, if you wanna talk about my sex life, we should really make an appointment with a therapist. I'm going to need one.”

  She shakes her head dismissively.

  “I don't want to talk about this anymore than you do. I just had one question for you.”

  “Go ahead,” I say cringingly.

  “That was consensual, right?”

  “Of course it was! What the hell do you think is going on?”

  “I don't know anymore,” she says, shaking her head. “All of these women on television talking having been sexually assaulted or made to feel uncomfortable by things that men have done for centuries. And now suddenly it's wrong?”

  This is the first time I have ever heard my mother talk like this. My mouth nearly drops open.

  “That's the whole problem,” I say when I finally regain the ability to speak. “That's the whole fucking problem. They have been doing the same thing for years. And finally someone is calling them on it. Grabbing women's asses when they are just walking past them. Telling a complete stranger to smile so that she will look prettier for him, as if she owes him something. Women have been putting up with these unwanted sexual advances for as long as there have been women in existence, and we are sick of it.”

  “If that's the case, then what the hell was going on in that apartment that I walked into?” she asks.

  My mother doesn't curse, and the fact that she uses the word hell instead of heck chills me. But she is genuinely confused and as much as it pains me to talk about my sex life with her, I decide that I don't have any other choice.

  “That was consensual," I say. “It was just something we were doing for fun. He thought that the blindfold and the restraints would take me out of my head and relax me a bit, and he was right.”

  She shakes her head, finishes her martini, and asks for another round. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps some understanding or compassion, but she lives in an entirely different world, one that I could never access, no matter how much I try.

  “Okay, I think we have gotten off track here,” she announces.

  “Yes, I agree,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.

  "But we do we understand each other?” she asks. I look up at her and into her wide green eyes.

  “About what?”

  “About Henry.”

  “Well, I know that you don't like him, you've made that perfectly clear.”

  “So, you will not be seeing him again?” she asks.

  I furrow my brows and shake my head. “No, absolutely not.”

  “So, I guess we have not reached an understanding.”

  “No, we haven’t,” I say.

  “Okay then, let's put it this way. If you want to keep seeing Henry then you can do so on your own. But your father and I do not want him living in the apartment that we are paying for.”

  Blood drains away from my face and I look down at the table, picking at a little crumb left by the French baguette.

  This is what I have been afra
id of, a definitive no.

  She has showed her disapproval before, but she has not come out and actually said that I would have to move out.

  “I don't understand why,” I say. "What do you think Henry is doing? Do you think that he is lying about who he is?”

  “No, I don't think that. I think he’s telling me the absolute truth and that’s what scares me the most.”

  I shake my head.

  She puts her hand over mine, startling me.

  The tone of her voice suddenly becomes softer and quieter.

  “I know that you have feelings for him, Aurora. And he may be a good person.”

  “He is,” I insist. “He's a good man.”

  “That doesn't matter,” my mother says. “I am very sorry. Perhaps I should have prepared you for this sooner and that's my fault. But you are a Tate, and though your personal life can be your personal life, that does not mean that you can make any sort of significant commitment like moving in with someone, let alone marrying someone, without our permission.”

  “And why is that?” I whisper, pressing my fingernails into my palms as hard as I can.

  "You are a Tate. You're not just an Aurora Penelope whomever. And you have certain responsibilities that come with that.”

  “Don't you want me to be happy? I mean, how much money do we need to have so that I'm not forced into a marriage of convenience?” I ask.

  “I'm not forcing you into anything. Do you see me introducing you to eligible bachelors? No, this has nothing to do with that. All I'm saying is that Henry Asher is not a good match for you and your father and I will not support you living with him.”

  “You know, you two came from nothing. I thought you would be a little bit more sympathetic to people who are struggling,” I say, trying to hold back the tears that are building up at the back of my eyes.

  “We are sympathetic, but he is not going after anything. He is perfectly content just being a teacher, and his greatest dream in life is to write short stories. How is he going to support you on that? Or is he going to depend on us forever?”

  “Is that what you're really concerned about?" I ask. "You have more money than anyone could ever spend in ten lifetimes and you're worried about spending a little bit of that to make sure that your daughter has a comfortable life with the man of her dreams?”

  “No, that’s not what concerns us. We are worried about you not following the rules. We are worried about you doing whatever the hell you want.”

  18

  Henry

  When Aurora shows up that evening after she had lunch with her mother, I took her into my arms and promised her that everything would be okay. I don’t renew my weekly sublet and we move back into my apartment. She thought that it would be horrible to live above 120th Street in a fourth floor studio walk-up, but our life is total bliss for the next two months.

  My work is right across the street so I never get in late even when I have overtime. Now, it’s her turn to do the long commute to Columbia and, at first, I worry about her, not sure how she will handle it.

  The whole trip with the bus change and the subway ride and the walking takes almost an hour, but after the first few trips, she stops complaining.

  In fact, she even tells me how much she enjoys having that time to think and process everything that has happened. She has never ridden the subway much before, or the bus, and she enjoys the people watching.

  Frankly, I thought she would have a much more difficult time adjusting to life as I know it, but she surprises me. She stops using credit cards that her parents pay for, and even gets a job at the Humanities Library to bring in some extra money.

  Of course, there are a lot more better paying positions in the city like being a server or waitress, but she seems happy at the library so I keep my thoughts to myself. For now, I’m just happy that she is contributing anything at all and we’re not relying on her parents’ money to make ends meet.

  The kids in my class relax a bit as the semester wears on and I start to enjoy my job more and more. I don’t have time or space to write, but I’m okay with that, too. We are getting our life figured out and starting our life together.

  And then, right after Thanksgiving, before the last two weeks of the semester, everything falls apart.

  “How was work?” she asks, rifling through the boxes near the closet.

  I don’t say anything and instead head straight to the mini-fridge.

  We live in a small studio apartment with an almost nonexistent closet.

  Some of her clothes are laid out on the floor, the others are on the bed and there are more in the boxes.

  “How do I look?” she asks, spinning around in her high-heeled shoes to look at me.

  “Beautiful. Where are you going?"

  “I haven't seen Ellis in a long time and she texted me to catch up.”

  I shrink and bury my head in the fridge, grabbing a beer and looking for something edible.

  “Why don't we ever have any food?” I ask.

  “Because you never go and get any,” she snaps back.

  “Oh, is that how it is now? It's my job to do all the grocery shopping?”

  “Do you think it's my job?" she asks.

  She slips on a different dress, shimmery and green with a tight, high waist and looks at herself in the full-length mirror that she brought over from her old apartment.

  The mirror is enormous, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Of course at her old place, it had fit nicely, but here it makes it look like we live in a matchbox.

  “I'm the one who is commuting for two hours a day, you work right around the corner. The least you can do is pick up some food.”

  “Don't you remember what we talked about?” I ask.

  She flips her hair and turns to look at me. She has never looked more beautiful.

  Her face flushes red with anger, making a little crinkling spot in between her eyebrows. I can see the fire in her eyes and it's all I can do to stop myself from throwing her onto the bed.

  “No, I don't remember," she says with her hands on her hips.

  “There are no good grocery stores anywhere near here,” I say. “None that have any fruits or vegetables anyway. Remember, they even did an NPR story about how this area is a food desert.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “So, just because I happen to go to school in a place with a grocery store, that means that I have to lug all of that stuff back up here, on my commute?”

  “I don't see any other way,” I say, sitting down on the sofa.

  There is barely any room for it, but she had insisted that we get it so that we would have somewhere else to sit beside the bed.

  “I don't wanna argue about this,” I say after moment. “That's not at all what I wanted to talk about.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asks.

  “They fired me,” I say quietly.

  “What? What are you talking about? I thought you had a contract for this year.”

  “I did, but they are breaking it. Apparently, the school is losing money and they're cutting back on some teachers.”

  “But who is going to teach your classes?” she asks.

  “I don't know. I guess they'll be combining some classes and sending some of the students to another school. I don't really know what's going on, but they are laying off about five other teachers. There are rumors that the owner has been funneling money to some of his other businesses and the state’s attorney might be investigating him. But in the meantime, I'm out of a job.”

  “I'm so sorry,” she says, walking over and wrapping her arms around me.

  I breathe her in. Her hair smells like flowers, and I want to stay in this moment forever. But when I exhale, she pulls away.

  “So what's going to happen now?” Aurora asks.

  “I have no idea," I say.

  I know what she's thinking. What's going to happen to this apartment, which was subsidized by my job?

  How are we going to afford
another place in a city that's so expensive?

  I take a deep breath and drop another bomb.

  “We have to be out of here by the end of December,” I say quietly.

  She stares at me in disbelief.

  "No, they can't do that," she says, shaking her head. “We have rights.”

  I shrug and finish my beer, going to the refrigerator to get another one.

  “Yes, we do. But they want us out of here. I don't know what's going on, but it looks like the school is shutting down.”

  “Well, no, we're not moving.”

  I plop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. “Of course, we don't necessarily have to move right now, right before Christmas. We can probably stay here for a month or two, maybe three, before they will be able to actually evict us. But that will ruin my credit and what then? I doubt I’ll be able to get a job by then, a good paying one anyway.”

  She looks at the time on her phone and quickly finishes applying her lipstick and some final touches around her eyes.

  “You look… magnificent,” I say without a hint of irony in my voice.

  "Thank you, I hope it's enough.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  "Well, I am meeting up with Ellis and I haven't seen her since I've moved up here.”

  “You know, some people would say that friends are there to support you in your time of need," I suggest.

  “You just don't understand. We have been friends since we were kids and this is what it's like to have friends from back in the day,” she says with a shrug.

  “Yes,” I say, “I am familiar with the concept of a long-term friendship. But you and Ellis don't seem to be very close. I mean, why else would you go through all of this trouble to impress her instead of just telling her what you're going through?”

  “Okay,” she says quickly, waving goodbye. “I don't have time to get into another argument with you. I've got to go.”

  After the door slams shut, I whisper, “I love you.”