The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  At Christmas, Midge had asked me if her parents were actually Santa, since he seemed to get her the same kinds of toys they did, while other kids at school received fun things to play with. So, I asked what she really wanted, then knew exactly what I’d be getting her for her birthday.

  “You got me an American Girl doll?” She jumps to her feet and squeezes her arms around me as I crouch down to her level.

  “You deserve it, pipsqueak. One of these days, I’ll take you into the city so you can go to the American Girl store yourself. You can bring your doll, pick out some clothes for her. We can even take her to lunch there.”

  She squeals even more, hugging me again. This makes it all worth it, being able to give her something she really wants. Giving her one moment of happiness.

  “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that,” Tiffany snips, head held high. “Chloe does have a very busy schedule.”

  “But I’m never too busy for you,” I tell Midge directly. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She beams, looking from me to her doll. I sense she’s itching to show off her new toy to her friends.

  “Go play.”

  “There are a bunch of accessories and other things to use with your doll in here,” Izzy offers, handing Midge a second gift bag.

  Midge’s gray eyes light up again and she wraps her arms around Izzy. “Thanks, Auntie Izzy.”

  “You bet. Now go.”

  Grinning, she spins, hurrying into the living room, excited shrieks coming from all the girls.

  Able to feel the heat of Tiffany’s glare on me, I shift my eyes to hers. “I thought we were clear that only gifts on the pre-approved list were to be purchased for Midge.”

  “Oh, you were clear. But as I’m sure you’ve learned, I don’t exactly like rules.” I return Tiffany’s condescending smile, then spin from her.

  The instant I enter the living room, all conversation ceases among the house vultures, as I’ve affectionately referred to them for years. I’ve never quite understood this group of women. They’re all in their forties. All happy not to have a career, to be completely dependent on their husbands to provide for them. Granted, each is married to someone who does well for himself, all of them having married a man in their fifties or sixties, but I’d never want to be known as “Adam’s wife” or “Joe’s wife” or “Nathan’s wife”. No identity. So handmaid-ish.

  Perhaps that was why my father wasn’t happy with my mother. She was ambitious. Didn’t want to sit at home and raise children. She wanted to show me that women could be just as successful as men. And she did, as much as she could when forced to sacrifice her own career to take care of me as a child.

  “Chloe,” one of the house vultures says, smiling and pretending they hadn’t spent the past several minutes talking about me.

  If I remember correctly, her name’s Stephani-with-an-i, as she introduced herself to me when we met a few years ago. Not sure why it mattered, but apparently, that unique spelling was important enough that she was no longer Stephani, but Stephani-with-an-i.

  “So glad you could finally make it. We were beginning to worry.”

  I meet her fake smile and raise her a fabricated grin. “The trains out of the city were running behind schedule.”

  Izzy and I move toward a few vacant chairs, and I take a minute to absorb my surroundings, the place barely recognizable as the home I remember from my youth. The furniture and window treatments are so over-the-top, probably meant to be a display of wealth but missed the mark and are downright gaudy.

  “I don’t know how you can stand living there,” another one of the women offers, dressed almost identical to Tiffany and Stephani-with-an-i.

  I wonder if there’s an unspoken rule that every housewife in Greenwich must adhere to the same uniform. Hair just past their shoulders, preferably blonde, with perfect beach waves. Skin bronzed year-round, despite the fact it’s only March and not yet beach weather. Pastel-colored sheath dresses showing off the figures they pay personal trainers thousands of dollars to help them achieve. I must stand out with my skinny jeans, oversized cardigan, and knee-high boots, not to mention my gray and lilac ombre hair.

  “I know,” Denise, another one of the house vultures, adds. “It’s so big. And noisy. And chaotic. Not a place I’d ever be proud to live in.”

  “Well, I could never live in the suburbs,” Izzy states in my defense, as she’s prone to do whenever I leave Manhattan and come out to this place that often feels like a foreign country after living in the city so long. The fresh air, chirping birds, and large expanses of open space make me uneasy. I much prefer concrete, tall buildings, and a barrage of honking horns.

  Denise looks at her with a wavering smile, then shrugs, sipping on her Champagne, oblivious to the children running around the house.

  Izzy leans toward me. “Drink?”

  “The stronger, the better.” I’m usually not one to drink during the day, but there are exceptions to that rule. And today is an exception.

  “You got it.” She squeezes my side, then heads toward the kitchen.

  “So, Chloe,” Stephani-with-an-i says. I look in her direction. “The barista at the Starbucks by the elementary school recently colored her hair similar to yours. What’s her name?” She scrunches her brows, glancing at a few of the other women.

  “Lottie,” one offers.

  “No. I think it’s something like Lauren.”

  “No,” another woman says. “It’s something strange. Like a stripper name. Lola maybe?”

  “Possibly.” Stephani-with-an-i still doesn’t look convinced. “Or is it…” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Not Lola. Poppy!” She tilts her head and looks at me as all the women nod in agreement. “Do you know her?”

  “I don’t live here,” I remind her. “So I haven’t had the pleasure of having suburban Starbucks.”

  “Oh, I know you don’t live here. I figured since your hair…”

  I blink repeatedly, trying to mask my utter shock at the stupidity spewing from Stephani-with-an-i’s mouth. This conversation further proves we need to put more money into our educational system and encourage women to have a career, instead of aspiring to be a trophy wife.

  “So, since our hair is similar, you figure we…know each other?”

  She peers at me like it’s not a ridiculous idea. “You don’t?”

  I have to bite back my laughter, desperate for Izzy to return with that drink. “Simply because we have similar attributes doesn’t mean we’re BFFs. I doubt you’re BFFs with every woman who’s had a shitty blonde dye job.” I pause, smiling as I glance around the room at the sea of blonde. “Actually, I stand corrected. It appears you are.”

  Her expression falls, her nose turning up in disgust. “Well, you don’t have to be nasty about it. I was only trying to make conversation. Apparently, your mother never taught you manners.”

  “She was too busy teaching me common sense.”

  “Here you are,” Izzy says breathlessly as she flies into the room, handing me a glass. She meets my eyes, her expression a look of warning to play nice for Midge’s sake.

  With a smile, I take it from her. “Saved by the martini,” I mumble under my breath.

  If nothing else, being here does have a certain entertainment value. Whenever I attend one of Tiffany’s parties, I often feel like a prostitute who just walked into church.

  And not one of those “we accept everyone regardless of your sexual orientation, past failings, and current drug habits” kind of churches. More like those judgmental, holier than thou churches that quote the Bible when it suits them but refuse to practice any kind of forgiveness, humility, or charity.

  Hypocrites.

  “As always,” Izzy sings.

  “Is Hannah coming?” Stephani-with-an-i inquires in an attempt to recover from her earlier blunder.

  “I believe she’s still on her honeymoon,” Tiffany pipes up. “And her parents are decompressing in Fiji now that the wedding’s over. A gift fr
om Hannah and her husband.”

  All the women ooh and aah over their generosity.

  “It was a beautiful wedding,” Denise comments.

  “Just perfect,” Theresa adds. “And her husband will be able to provide such a wonderful life for her. She’s so lucky to have found a man so successful. She’ll be able to quit her job and focus on raising their children.”

  I snort-laugh as I bring my drink back to my mouth, taking a long sip to cover my reaction.

  “Something funny?” Tiffany asks in a pleasant voice, a smile plastered on her face as she exudes all the manners she was taught during the years of etiquette lessons her upper-class family insisted she attend.

  “The idea of Hannah staying home and raising children.”

  While she did marry a very successful man and the wedding a few weeks ago was gorgeous, Hannah’s not the kind of woman who would be happy adhering to such a societal role. Whenever she comes to one of Tiffany’s parties, mostly as moral support for me, she rolls her eyes at the ridiculousness of these women. How they have no drive to have a life of their own. To have an identity of their own. Plus, for as long as I can remember, Hannah has wanted to be a teacher. I don’t see her giving up that career anytime soon. Or ever.

  “Who else will raise her children when she has them?” Carrie asks.

  “She gets summers off.”

  “Yes. But what about the rest of the year?”

  “Gosh, that is a problem, isn’t it?” I scrunch up my brow, pretending to be deep in thought, as if this predicament is one no one has considered before. Then my expression brightens. “Actually, I read about this new concept that’s been around for…oh, probably only forty or fifty years. What is it called?”

  I glance at the ceiling, pinching my lips together. Izzy stifles a laugh, the only one amused, since I can feel the daggers the rest of the women are shooting at me. “That’s right.” I snap my fingers and return my gaze to them. “Daycare. Hannah can put her spawn in daycare. That’s assuming she even wants to have children.”

  “Why would you get married if you didn’t want to have children?” Stephani-with-an-i asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re in love and want to commit your life to each other.” I take a sip of my drink, many of them still looking at me like I’m crazy, so I go in for the kill. “Plus, Hannah mentioned wanting to adopt. She works with a lot of kids in the foster care system. Some of them get moved around so much that their education suffers. It’s a noble thing.”

  “That is true,” Tiffany says, always trying to be diplomatic. “But aren’t a lot of kids in foster care…” She trails off, wanting us to fill in the blank so she doesn’t have to say it. But I’m not going to let her off so easily. She’s always been prejudiced against anyone who isn’t white and what she considers perfect.

  “What?” I press.

  “They’re… You know.”

  “I don’t think I do.” I smirk. “Perhaps you should embellish so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “Just say it,” Izzy interjects harshly, her dark eyes growing even darker.

  She has very strong opinions on this subject. After all, she is Hispanic. And adopted. But it seems they all forget that because, as Tiffany puts it, she doesn’t “act” Hispanic, whatever that means.

  “They’re something other than white,” Izzy states firmly when she remains silent.

  Tiffany’s eyelids flutter as she holds her head high, placing her hands in her lap. She steals a glance at the children. I wonder if any of these sheltered kids have ever seen a person of color.

  “Well, yes. Wouldn’t she want her child to look like her? What will people think when they see their mismatched family?”

  I’ve always found it odd that as staunch of a defender of the First Amendment as my father is, often filing suits against our own government when they try to suppress the media, he married someone as closed-minded as Tiffany. Then again, I’m not sure my father’s ever loved her. I’m not sure he’s capable of loving anything other than his career. And I doubt Tiffany’s capable of loving anything except a large bank account.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Izzy mocks. “Maybe that Hannah has a heart of gold. So much so that she’d jump through hoops to take in a child who isn’t her own and love him or her like they were. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to adopt?”

  All the women stare at her in silence.

  “It’s damn near impossible. Most people give up after so many years because they can’t take the constant roller-coaster ride anymore. I would never prejudge a family because they don’t fit into some mold. It’s the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. I see all walks of life come through the doors of the pediatric oncology wing at the hospital. And yes, some of those kids are adopted. It’s heartbreaking to watch those parents struggle to find their child’s birth parents to have any hope for a bone marrow transplant. But you know the one thing that’s universal. The only thing that matters in any family?”

  The room becomes eerily still, her voice seeming to reverberate against the walls. Izzy darts her eyes to the kids who’ve stopped playing and are focused on her. She briefly pulls her lips between her teeth as she regains her composure.

  “Love. Regardless of whether you’re related by blood, love is all that matters. Love makes a family.”

  I reach for Izzy’s hand, squeezing it, offering her a comforting smile.

  “Like how I love Chloe, even if she’s only my half-sister,” Midge’s voice breaks through the awkward silence.

  “Exactly.” Izzy smiles at her. “And you don’t only love her because you’re related, right?”

  “No. I love her because she wears cool clothes, has awesome shoes…” She grins, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “And she swears a lot.”

  A few women snicker, but quickly cover their mouths when Tiffany shoots a glare their way. In my defense, I’ve made a conscious effort to curtail it when I’m around Midge. I’ve yet to drop an F-bomb. I think.

  “Just like Daddy,” she finishes. “So they probably are related. Where else would Chloe have learned to swear if she didn’t learn it from Daddy? That’s where I learned.”

  I glance at Tiffany over my martini glass to gauge her reaction, an odd sense of satisfaction filling me at the sight of her squirming. After the number of kids she’s had, she should know you can’t say anything in front of them. At least nothing you want kept private.

  “The apple certainly doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she says in a saccharine voice, neither confirming nor denying Midge’s statement. “Speaking of which, how’s school going?” She smirks at me, probably expecting to hear I’ve withdrawn from yet another class because outside obligations interfered with my coursework.

  “It’s been an…interesting semester.” I glance at Izzy and we share a knowing look. “But I’m happy to report it will be my last. I filed my graduation paperwork a few days ago.”

  I leave out the part about nearly dropping the class earlier in the semester. But as I’d hoped, Owen has made my situation increasingly tolerable. There’s still a bit of awkwardness anytime my eyes meet Lincoln’s, but it’s not as thick as it was in the beginning.

  “Is that right?” a deep, booming voice cuts through.

  I whip my head toward the foyer to see my father standing there, much to my surprise, considering I’d assumed he was working today, as he always is.

  But his presence here isn’t what has my heart ricocheting to my throat, all the air sucked from my lungs.

  It’s who stands beside him that makes me feel like the walls are closing in, suffocating me.

  Izzy nudges me, silently reminding me to pretend like it’s a normal occurrence for Lincoln Moore to be in my childhood home. Based on the familiar greetings from many of the house vultures, it might be. Many of them fawn over him, batting their lashes, sticking their chests out a little. But he doesn’t notice them.

  Just like that night at the club in Ve
gas, just like when he sent that martini over, just like when he nearly kissed me in the lobby of the casino, he looks at me as if I’m the only person who matters. Or maybe he’s just as surprised to see me here as I am to see him.

  “Let me get you another drink,” Izzy murmurs, forcing my attention back to her.

  I nod, swallowing the rest of my martini in one gulp before handing her the glass. I meet my father’s expectant stare beckoning me toward him, probably so he can demean me in front of his employee in a show of superiority.

  On a long exhale, I raise myself from the chair and walk across the living room, skirting discarded shards of wrapping paper and boxes filled with clothes.

  “Hey, Dad.” I float my eyes from his, looking at Lincoln. “Professor Moore.”

  “Miss Davenport.”

  “So I take it you’re giving your First Amendment class yet another try?” My father lifts a single brow. He’s always had a distinguished look to him. Tall and lean. Salt-and-pepper hair. Clean-shaven, apart from the times he’s working on a big case and foregoes normal grooming to pull all-nighters. Smartly dressed, even when he keeps it casual with a blazer and jeans, like today.

  “I do need it to graduate.” I fold my arms in front of my chest, casually leaning against the wall, trying to appear unaffected when, in reality, my heart thunders against the walls of my chest, threatening to burst through.

  “I won’t pop the Champagne bottle just yet. It’s your fourth time taking this class, isn’t it?”

  “Third.” I grit a smile. “There were extenuating circumstances preventing me from completing the course the previous two times.”

  “There are always extenuating circumstances with you. It’s your tenth year, isn’t it? In my experience, people who’ve been going to college as long as you would be graduating with their doctorate, not merely a bachelors.” He laughs jovially, as if his humor rivals that of a comedian.

  That’s how it’s always been. He makes snide comments about everything I’ve done that fails to live up to his expectations, shrouding them in humor. But he means every biting comment, even if made in a light tone. If making passive-aggressive remarks were an Olympic sport, he’d be more decorated than Michael Phelps.