Tessa Ever After

by Brighton Walsh

  It’s too much, and when she lets out a choked gasp, her eyes rolling back in her head as she comes around me, I let go and fall with her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  tessa

  Despite having been here a few times before, the looming sight of Jason’s parents’ home as we pull up never fails to impress. It sits a ways back from the quiet suburban street, set apart from the equally impressive houses on either side of it. While I’ve always thought we lived in a nice neighborhood, when compared to this, we might as well be living in a cardboard box under a bridge.

  A housekeeper—Magda, I’m told—greets us at the front door and takes our coats, all while Haley stands next to me, her mouth gaping like a fish. “Wow,” she whispers. “Is this really one house?”

  “Afraid so, shorty.” Jason pats her on the head, ruffling her hair and making her giggle and duck away from him. At my silence, he turns to me and grabs my hand, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s no big deal. This is them, remember? Not me.”

  And the thing is, after last night, after Jason coming to my place even when Cade called him to try and scare him off, I’m secure in the fact that he’s here, with me. Maybe not for the long haul, but for the foreseeable future. And for now, that’s enough.

  What I am worried about, what kept me up most nights this week, is his parents’ reaction to Haley. She doesn’t deserve any of their prejudice, and I’m not going to be held responsible for my actions if they say anything remotely rude to her.

  When I give Jason a nod, he smiles my smile—the one that’s mine alone—and leans in, giving me a light kiss on the lips. A throat clears to the left of us just as he’s pulling away. Jason’s mom stands a few feet away, looking like she just stepped out of a fitting room at Neiman Marcus, complete with a personal shopper to dress her. I don’t know, maybe she has someone on staff who lives in her closet. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tasteful twist, something I’ve done a hundred times for mothers of the brides. Her makeup is subtle but flawless, her pale pink lips pursed as she appraises us. She’s wearing a button-down silk shirt with a pencil skirt, her heels something I’d never wear while walking around my house, and under her assessing gaze I feel out of place in my knee-high boots and frilly skirt, the vintage sweater I snagged at the thrift store feeling exactly like I spent three dollars on it.

  “Mom.” Jason’s voice interrupts my thoughts, allowing me to swallow my insecurities. At least for a moment.

  “Hello.” She comes forward, and instead of hugging Jason like I would expect from a mom—that’s what mine did anytime we came and went from the house, no matter if she’d seen us thirty minutes prior—she holds out her hand for me. “It’s nice to see you again, Tessa.”

  I reach for her hand, returning the limp handshake. “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Montgomery. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

  “No problem at all. We’re glad Jason decided to bring someone home for once.”

  I slide my eyes to Jason, watching as his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. Holding out the casserole dish I brought, I say, “I wasn’t sure what I should bring, and Jason wouldn’t tell me. I hope this is okay. It’s green bean casserole.”

  She takes it from me, her lips twitching, and it’s as close to a snarl as she’d show company. “How . . . lovely. Thank you. I’ll give this to Megan to reheat.”

  “It’s Magda, Mother, and you know that.”

  “Yes, well,” she says as she turns away, expecting us to follow after her. “Your father is in the sitting room along with Charles and Steven and their wives. I’ll be in after I drop this in the kitchen.”

  As soon as she’s out of earshot, I whisper, “Well, that went well. I bet she’s dumping it down the garbage disposal as we speak.”

  Jason laughs, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. It looks like he wants to offer more physical reassurance, but Haley’s no longer preoccupied with staring wide-eyed at the entryway, so he just grabs her hand, too, and leads us toward the sitting room. Seriously, who has a sitting room? Where I come from, it’s a living room or a family room, though I’m sure they have both of those, as well. And probably a study. And a library. And a wine cellar. I’m actually surprised there wasn’t a moat around this castle.

  “She wouldn’t dump it. Her manners are too ingrained for that.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” I mumble as we walk down a long hallway. The walls are dark burgundy, adorned with pieces of art that are no doubt original—and that no doubt cost more than my annual salary. The long corridor is broken up with several antique side tables, all decorated with fresh flowers. I’d never really given much thought to how Jason views our home. It’s older; the only room recently redone was the kitchen just before my mom died. Otherwise, it’s faded and cozy, with furniture I remember from when I was in middle school. I have too many other things I’d rather spend any extra money on, and it’s never really bothered me that we didn’t have the newest or the nicest.

  Being here, though, seeing the space he grew up in, the kind of space he’s accustomed to, I can’t help but wonder if it’s bothered Jason.

  • • •

  WHEN PEOPLE TALK about a formal dining room, this is the kind of room they’re talking about. A dark wood table that must seat at least sixteen takes up the majority of the room. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, the lights set just brightly enough so we can see clearly. A crystal goblet and too many pieces of silverware are set out in front of each of the ornate wood chairs, and this is just like that restaurant Greg took me to. Too rich, too stuffy, too much.

  “Just a house,” Jason whispers in my ear as he squeezes my knee, drawing the sharp eyes of his father.

  Mr. Montgomery is sitting at the head of the table, and though he hasn’t done anything outwardly to show his distaste, it still seems like he’s looking down at us. Since we arrived, his attention hasn’t strayed far from me or Haley, even while deep in talks with Charles and Steven—two of the partners at the firm, I found out. His gaze is unnerving—not because it’s creepy, but because it’s calculating, and that’s almost worse.

  The serving staff—seriously, who has a serving staff?—come sweeping into the room shortly after we’ve been seated, placing artfully adorned plates of what I guess is some sort of Thanksgiving food in front of us. The portions are minuscule, and if Cade could see this, he’d have a coronary. There’s a time and place for fancy food, but Thanksgiving isn’t it.

  The thought of my brother brings a pang to my chest as I remember the things he said last night . . . remember how I ended the call. I know he’s just looking out for me, making sure I don’t get hurt, but his words still stung. Especially when they unearthed the fears I tried hard to bury before walking into this with Jason. I need to talk to him, try to get him to understand.

  Because even though I’m a grown woman raising my daughter and I don’t need his approval, I would like his blessing.

  Haley tugs on the sleeve of my sweater, and I lean down so she can whisper in my ear. “Mama, I don’t like any of this stuff.” She wrinkles her nose in disgust.

  I breathe out a laugh, because I don’t much like any of it, either. “Just eat what you can, baby. You like turkey.”

  “But it’s got that yucky red sauce on it.”

  “We can scrape it off. And there’s my casserole. And these are mashed potatoes . . . I think.” I gesture to the white mass that’s been piped out in the shape of a rose . . . or something.

  “Oh dear, is the meal not fit for a child?” Mrs. Montgomery speaks from across the table, and though her words sound contrite, her voice is anything but. “It’s just we haven’t had one here for so long . . .”

  I straighten in my chair and wave a hand. “No, no, it’s fine. Thank you again for having us.”

  She gives me a tight smile, her eyes darting between Jason and me, and I want to shrink down, hide myself away. I don’t belong here . . . don’t fit in. I feel like his parents are just waiting for
my daughter to start a food fight or burp at the table—something where they can point and say, “See? Why would you want to get involved with someone like that?”

  Neither of them have been outright rude to me or Haley, but it’s pretty easy to pick up on the subtle cues, the unspoken judgments, and I hate every minute of it.

  But not just for me, because Jason’s not exempt from the misery. He’s trapped in talk of work with his father and the other partners, and if the death grip he has on my leg is any indication of how it’s going, he’s going to need more than the single glass of bourbon his father poured him.

  Conversation around the table is focused mostly on the state of the company, and after scraping as much of the “yucky red sauce” off Haley’s turkey as I can, I slice into mine, hoping I can eat enough of this to be acceptable.

  “So tell me, Tessa, are you a student, as well?” Conversation lulls with Mrs. Montgomery’s question, and I smile and swallow the bite of food in my mouth.

  “No, actually, I’m a hairstylist.”

  It’s subtle, the way her hand stills as she brings her glass of wine to her lips, but I see it. I also see the way her eyes flit to my hair, to the purple streaks I was so worried about and now sort of wish they weren’t just streaks, but that I just had a solid mass of purple hair for her to look at and judge. “A hairstylist . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . how nice for you.” If the tone of her voice is anything to go by, she doesn’t think it’s nice at all. “Though I suppose you did have to jump into something rather quick—anything you could get, really—having Haley so young.”

  Jason stiffens next to me, and I reach over and squeeze his knee, much the same way he’s done to me. Little does he know, this isn’t the first time I’ve received this kind of treatment. People think just because I’m a young, single mom, I’m an open target for their judgments. I had to learn pretty damn quick how to deal with them.

  “Actually, it’s what I’ve wanted to do for a long time, well before Haley came along. And I’m good at it, so . . .” I shrug and take a small sip of my wine, effectively shooting down any more conversation.

  Or so I thought.

  “Surely we have an opening for something at the company. Lawrence? Isn’t there a position open in the mailroom? Or perhaps a receptionist?”

  Before Jason’s father can reply, I give a tight smile and say, “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for another job. I’m happy where I am.”

  “Well, yes, but surely this would be a bit more . . . prestigious,” Mrs. Montgomery says.

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying the myriad of retorts I want to throw at her. Instead I say the most polite thing I can. Which probably isn’t very polite at all. “Perhaps to you, but I like where I am. I don’t much care about prestige or how my career will look to other people or how much money I could make, because I’m happy there.”

  Everyone around the table goes completely silent, their faces showing shock—no doubt at my answer rather than at the person their shock should be focused on. I want to sink in my chair until I slide right under the table, mortified that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for two seconds, whether these snobby people pissed me off or not. And then I glance over at Jason and see the smile that takes up half his face as he looks down at his plate of art, and I pull my shoulders back and sit up a little straighter.

  After only a couple seconds of awkward silence, conversation starts up once again around the table, and Jason’s pulled back into talk of the company, the smile slipping off his face. For the first time since he told me about his parents’ ultimatum, I can empathize with him. As his mother proved, a job less than satisfactory in their eyes just isn’t acceptable. And for him, the only child to carry on the Montgomery name? I can’t even imagine their reaction to him telling them he wanted to design websites for a living instead of carrying on in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. I’m not even part of the family, and his mother wanted me to switch jobs, pushed something else on me, just so I could have their business name attached to it, despite the fact that I’m happy where I am.

  I glance over at Jason, seeing his tensed jaw, his stiff shoulders, and I’m finally getting a small glimpse into what, exactly, it means to be a Montgomery. I hate that he’s subjected to their impossible standards—that his parents can’t just accept who he is and support him.

  jason

  “So, Jason, are you ready to start shadowing your father in the new year? You’ve got some big shoes to fill in the next few years,” Charles says.

  It’s just the four of us in my father’s study, the women having congregated in another part of the house, my mother dragging them off to show them some stupid-ass society thing no one gives two shits about, least of all Tessa and Haley. Even though I’d like nothing more than to get trashed, I switched to water an hour ago so I could drive us home as soon as fucking possible. I need to get out of this house. I can’t breathe.

  The other men all hold their crystal tumblers with their favored liquor, smoking my dad’s cigars as they bullshit about topics I give zero fucks about. It’s like looking into the future, seeing what my life will be like twenty years from now. It makes me want to jump out the fucking window.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m certain he’ll make sure I have the ropes down.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” Charles studies me for a minute, Steven doing the same thing. “There are some things we do have doubt about, though.”

  I raise my eyebrows, knowing I’d hear about this at some point before I stepped up at the company. “What’s that?”

  Instead of answering, he says, “Tell me about Tessa.”

  Immediately, I’m on edge, my shoulders rigid as I study him. I have no idea what he’s playing at, but I also have no doubt it’s something I’m not going to like. “What about her?”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  My father clears his throat loudly, but I don’t even glance over at him, my focus intent on the Armani-wearing dickhead in front of me.

  “It is, actually.”

  “Care to clue me in on how the hell you figure that?”

  He leans back in his chair, resting one of his ankles on the opposite knee. “Come January, when you officially start the transition into Montgomery International, every facet of your life is going to be under the microscope, available for public consumption.”

  “Oh good, and here I thought it was just my life ending in January.”

  As if I never spoke, he continues, “You haven’t exactly been discreet in your . . . extracurricular activities. Perhaps it’s time you settled down, set people’s minds at ease.”

  The water I just took a drink of goes down the wrong tube, and I cough, my eyes bulging. “Excuse me?”

  He appraises me with cool eyes. “Our clients have come to expect a certain . . . family aspect when they come to our firm. Your grandfather started it in that vein, and your father has made sure to nurture that image.”

  “You mean lie about that image . . .”

  He stares at me for a long moment, then says, “The other partners have expressed their . . . concerns about your lifestyle. But, well, maybe you settling down with a family isn’t so far off . . .” he says with a nod in the direction of the room we left all the women in—Tessa and Haley included.

  Normally, even the mere mention of this would’ve sent me packing, hives bursting out on my skin. Having a front-row seat to the shitshow marriage my parents have, I had no desire to jump into it quickly. Or ever.

  Except now, the thought of it being with Tessa doesn’t strip all the breath from my lungs like it might have only months ago.

  Instead, the thought that they’d—these greedy fuckers who think only about the company, not the lives of the actual human beings there—use her, bring her into my life, and force us together for nothing more than the image of the company pisses me
the fuck off. Setting down my glass, I stand. “I hate to burst your bubble, Chuck, but that’s not going to happen. Don’t insult me by asking again.”

  And then I turn around and walk out, off to find Tessa and Haley and get them both as far from this life as possible.

  TWENTY-THREE

  jason

  My hands grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white under the pressure, and I’m still stewing over what transpired more than thirty minutes ago. Charles’s attempt to subtly suggest I put a ring on Tessa’s finger to appease the partners—just to appease the fucking partners—was so thinly veiled it would’ve been funny if it weren’t so goddamn insulting.

  It’s clear everyone at that company thinks I’m in their pocket—no doubt a result of my father’s cockiness—that I’m their fucking puppet to work and twist how they please.

  I should’ve seen it coming, though. I knew something like that was going to happen, that they’d find a way to get their claws in the one part of my life I want to keep for myself, the one part I should’ve left locked away. I shouldn’t have invited Tessa and Haley tonight . . . not because I don’t care about them, but because I do. I care about them too much to let my toxic family work their way between us. I should’ve gone to the damn thing by myself and kept them out of it—Tessa had an awful time, Haley not much better. And all it did for me was get the fucking bloodhounds on my ass for something I’d never give them.

  I’d never give Tessa or Haley up to them.

  The car is filled with silence on the way back to Tessa’s place, Haley having fallen asleep about two minutes into the ride. Tessa hasn’t uttered a word, either. And I’m not sure if she can tell something is going on with me, or, worse, if my mother said something to her while they were off in another part of the house. Something worse than telling her that her job wasn’t good enough like she did at dinner. I hope to God my mother didn’t say anything remotely similar to what Charles cornered me about.