by Monica James
Sighing, I suddenly feel a weight settle deep within my gut. She’s right. But the question is, what am I going to do about it?
All thoughts are put on the backburner, however, when we approach Belle Bocca, an upmarket Italian restaurant in the back streets of Bel Air. I come to a complete stop.
“Have you got something against Italian all of a sudden?” Lincoln teases, turning over his shoulder to see what the holdup is.
But I can’t even muster a laugh as the name of this place draws out even more skeletons from my closet. I have tried my absolute hardest not to think of Belle, but seeing her name spelled out before me makes it almost impossible to ignore.
If this is a sign, then I want to know exactly what it’s supposed to mean. My mom gently guides me toward the entrance, knowing all too well why the sudden standstill.
We’re greeted at the door by a waiter wearing the finest silk suit. Taking a quick glance around, I see that this place exudes wealth, not that that surprises me, seeing as Lincoln’s parents chose the location. Harold stands when he sees us, giving us a small wave.
The moment we make our way over to the long table, Sylvia turns over her shoulder and gives my mom a onceover. She clearly doesn’t like what she sees as she turns up her pink stained lips and reaches for the red wine. My mom shifts beside me, nervously smoothing out her beautiful blue dress. She looks incredible, and I’ll be damned if anyone tells her otherwise.
“Lincoln.” Sylvia makes grabby hands at her son, who bends down to kiss her cheek. Regardless of the fact she can be downright superficial and judgmental at times, Lincoln loves her just the same. As for his dad, he’s constantly seeking his approval, both on and off the field.
“Hi, Mom. Dad.” After kissing her cheek, he shakes his father’s hand firmly.
The O’Tooles live so far outside the real world, they’ve forgotten their manners it appears, as they completely ignore my parents and focus on me.
“Darling, you look just ravishing,” Sylvia says, standing and offering me an air kiss on both cheeks.
“Thank you. So do you,” I reply, giving her a small smile.
“Oh, thank you. It’s the latest trend in Paris at the moment.” She brushes over her unsightly frock. “Isn’t this material just to die for?”
I bite my tongue and don’t point out that a small bear probably did die, donating his fur for her ‘latest trend.’
Sylvia has always had a good eye for fashion, and usually, I would humor her, but now, her blatant disrespect toward my parents has me nodding once. “You remember my parents.” It’s a low blow, but I can’t deal with pretenses after the past few days.
Harold clears his throat and adjusts his spotted bow tie. “Yes, of course. Nice to see you again.” He shakes my father’s hand and smiles politely at my mom. I’m moments away from turning around and leaving, but refrain when my mom shows the table who’s the bigger person and greets Sylvia with a gentle hug. We all take our seats, the mood set to uncomfortable immediately.
I reach for the menu, ignoring the small talk passing back and forth between Lincoln and his parents. This isn’t anything new, but my reaction to them is. “The lasagna sounds amazing.” My mom nods, smacking her lips in concurrence, but Sylvia’s face twists into horror.
“Two weeks out from the wedding you simply cannot eat all those carbs. How about a salad?”
I jerk my head so far to the right to look at her, I’m certain I’ve just pulled a muscle in my neck. Just as I’m about to tell her what I think of her suggestion, Lincoln reaches for my curled fist beneath the table and squeezes lightly. He’s silently begging I don’t make a scene.
Swallowing down the urge to confute, I simply reach for the bottle of wine and drown my sorrows in the 1981 Merlot.
“So how’s work?” Harold asks my dad, who peers at him from across the table.
“It’s great, very busy. How about you?”
Bless my dad, but Harold hasn’t worked a hard day in his life. Yes, he owns one of the biggest technology companies in the USA, but he has many minions doing the dirty work for him. And he coached high school football only because he wanted to live out the heydays that passed him by.
Sylvia’s take on hard work is having to park her own car when the valet is full.
“Business is going well.” I down my glass of wine, watching this ship sink further and further by the second.
The waiter takes our orders. I ensure mine can be heard loud and clear. “I’ll have the lasagna. Extra parmesan, please.” I hand him the menu, ignoring the scowl Sylvia throws my way.
Another bonus of living over two hundred miles away is not being subjected to family dinners. Children and parents are two things Lincoln and I don’t see eye to eye on. I’m in no way ready for kids now, but down the line, I can see myself being a mom. As for Lincoln, it would appear a lobotomy would be far more appealing. I can only hope his opinion changes soon.
“Have you decided on a dress?” Sylvia asks, sipping from her goblet. The mere mention has me shuffling uncomfortably in my seat.
“Not yet.” She takes a hint from my clipped response, and the awkwardness gets jacked up to maximum volume.
Usually, the dim lights and comforting atmosphere would be soothing after the lunacy of the past few days, but tonight, it grates on my nerves. The cellist who sits in the corner of the room is providing background noise by playing a Bach piece, but the supposedly melodic tune sounds like someone is running their long fingernails down a chalkboard.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” Lincoln asks, softly running his fingers down the back of my neck.
I know he’s only trying to make me feel better, but his touch makes me feel worse. “I’m fine.” I subtly shrug from his hold.
I reach for the bottle, but Lincoln beats me to it. He fills my crystal goblet with wine, but I reach forward, tipping the base, implying to fill it right up. His mother glares at me while I sarcastically raise my glass.
“Cheers.” I smirk and gulp it down in one big, unladylike mouthful.
She tries to hide her disapproval, but the tugging at her high necklace is a dead giveaway her Chanel panties are in a twist.
“Babe, maybe you should wait until we eat?” he whispers as I refill my empty glass. His request falls on deaf ears, however, as I fill it to the brim.
“So have you seen Dr. Lombardi’s new receptionist?” Harold changes the subject, trying to clear the tension in the air.
Sylvia nods. She loves nothing more than a good gossip. “Oh dear god, yes. Has he gone blind in his old age? She looks like a giant elephant behind that desk.”
I sag in relief, thankful they’ve found someone else to focus on besides me. Looks like I’m in the clear…for now.
The rest of the evening drags on and on, and after appetizers, I feel like I’m on the verge of having yet another breakdown.
Dinner smelled delicious, but sadly, I could only stomach two bites. The tension at the table can be cut with a knife. It appears our parents can’t seem to agree on anything; the difference between both, however, is that my parents know when to let it go. The same can’t be said for the O’Tooles.
“I do wish you’d allow the wedding to take place at our house. It makes sense,” argues Sylvia, not needing to spell out the reason.
Their home is bigger, and in their eyes, nicer and more suitable than my parents’, but the choice is mine, and I’ve decided that if I’m forced to walk down an aisle, it will be at my parents’ house.
“Thank you for your extremely generous offer, but the arrangements have already been made.” This is an all-out lie, but she doesn’t know that.
Lincoln however, does. “What arrangements? You don’t even have a dress. If your parents wouldn’t mind, maybe we could move location.” He looks at his dad, as if seeking approval for speaking up. His dad merely continues hacking into his steak, which appears to be far more appealing than his son.
The sadness emanating from my mom whacks me in the stomach, a
nd I suck in a small breath. “They may not mind, but I do.”
Lincoln’s surprise is evident, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give in. My parents would be heartbroken and devastated, and I refuse to do that to them again.
Sylvia leans forward, turning on the charm. “Delores, you wouldn’t reconsider? With both you and Bobby working such long hours, let us take the pressure off. We’ll pay for everything. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.” The napkin in my lap resembles papier-mâché as I scrunch it into a small ball.
I can see my mother conceding because she doesn’t want to make a scene. She’s accustomed to giving in, being frowned upon most of her life.
I glare at Lincoln, visually berating him for not standing up to his presumptuous mother. Last I checked, this was our wedding, not hers, and she has no right to dictate just where she thinks it should take place. But Lincoln simply leans back in his seat, silent. Does he agree with her? Does he too think my parents aren’t worthy?
Just as I open my mouth, my dad, my forever hero, swoops in and levels her with those dogged eyes—the ones I see staring back at me every time I look into a mirror.
“Thank you for the offer, Sylvia, but we don’t need anybody to pay our way. The wedding will be taking place at our home. It’s what my daughter wants. If Lincoln objects, then I most certainly would be happy to discuss alternative arrangements with him, but if not, then I don’t see the point in harping on this further.”
I bite my lip, afraid I’ll burst into a hallelujah if not.
Sylvia has just heard a word I’m sure she doesn’t hear too often—no—and to add insult to injury, it was spoken by someone she sees as nothing more than a nuisance. My mom looks across the table at my dad, nothing but love and appreciation glowing from every pore. He has her back—he always has. I thought Lincoln had mine, but apparently, I thought wrong.
Lincoln doesn’t curb his annoyance that my father told his precious mother in a roundabout way to shut the hell up, but if he decided to voice that infuriation out loud, then there may not be a wedding to argue about after all. After today, I thought we’d made peace and everything was back on track.
The table grows quiet, all attention on the looks of love darting between my parents. Their affection should make me want to throw up, but it doesn’t. I’m envious that after so many years, their love is still so unbending.
As Lincoln tosses back his beer, clearly exasperated, I can’t help but wonder if push came to shove, would Lincoln pick me over his mom? I would never ask this of him, but I can’t help but speculate. I know my parents have a special kind of love, but it’s impossible not to compare it to mine and Lincoln’s. What kind of love are we?
“Holland Brooks-Ferris? Oh my god, is that you?” In a town where I was overlooked by so many, it now seems like everyone knows my name. Peering upward, a tacky blonde rests by our table. She’s hanging off the arm of someone who could be her great grandfather.
My mind catalogues through all the faces I tried so hard to forget, but it remembers this one as Helen Tharp—one of the Sin Skanks. She’s still the queen of skanks. I’m surprised they let her in here with half a dress.
“It’s me, Helen Tharp,” she clarifies when I continue staring at her, unsure what she expects me to say.
“Hi,” I reply, giving her a small wave. I’m hoping she accepts the gesture as a goodbye kiss. She doesn’t.
“It’s so great to see you. And you too, Lincoln. Where have you guys been?” Her gaze swings to Lincoln, who methodically arranges his silverware. He’s anxious. Why?
When no one speaks, I decide the quicker I get this over with, the quicker she leaves. “New York. We live there now.”
“Together?” she asks, swiping her finger between us.
“Yes, together.” I don’t check my irritation at her tone.
Lincoln looks as interested in this conversation as watching paint dry. Another reason to slap him upside the head. What is the matter with him tonight? I know he’s still hung up on his dad playing favorites with everyone except him in high school. Maybe him being here and the past few days is scratching at old wounds. But regardless, his behavior tonight is unacceptable.
Helen smooths out her gold outfit and primps her blond mane. “Wow, how things have changed since high school.”
“Yes, we all grew up. Some more than others,” I add, making a point to look at her fake, sizable chest.
She purses her lips, the Helen I once knew rearing her ugly head. “Speaking of which, do you still speak to Belle?”
My fumbling fingers knock my glass of red over, causing a big puddle of Merlot to stain the white tablecloth. A waiter is by our table in a second, cleaning my mess as Sylvia apologizes profusely for my clumsiness. I would be apologizing, but my mouth feels like it’s been stuck together with glue.
Belle’s name is like a grenade, and everyone at the table is ready for the shrapnel to wound them deeply. My parents shift, Lincoln finally shows interest, and Sylvia and Harold are paling by the second. “No, we lost touch after school.”
Helen folds her arms, drumming her long fingernails against her arms. “Oh, so you don’t know.”
I gulp, while Lincoln’s jaw clenches. “Know what?”
She looks as if all her Christmases have come at once, being the one to reveal this grand secret. “Know that Belle had a—”
“Enough!”
I actually jump in my seat, startled by Lincoln’s fist striking down on the tabletop with brute force. The anger trickles off him in deep-seated waves, and I actually fear for Helen’s safety. The waiter quickly dashes off, clearing himself from what most certainly will be a brawl.
His hulking body is seconds away from combusting. “You’ve said enough, Helen, now leave,” he demands between clenched teeth. Both fists are pressed to the table, hinting he’s barely holding it together. I can’t believe how angry he is. I thought I’d seen him mad before, but this is something else.
Helen takes a step backward. It’s apparent she’s surprised by his rage. “I said leave. No one wants you here. Go back to the corner you came from.”
My mouth hinges open. I actually am speechless. The grandfather figure at her side seems confused by the commotion.
Helen’s eyes water, but she holds back her tears. “I suppose I was wrong. Some things never change.” She spins on her heel, leaving me with so many questions, but currently my mouth has forgotten how to function.
I watch with wide eyes as my father digs out his wallet and throws a couple of hundred dollar bills on the table. “That should cover our share. If we owe anymore, send us the bill.” He gestures to my mother and me that it’s time to go. I can’t sit here another second because I’m afraid I’ll suffocate if I do.
Placing my napkin on the table, I go to stand but am jarred back into my seat when Lincoln tugs on my arm. “You’re not leaving with them, are you?”
The world is on crazy drugs; that’s the only plausible explanation. Yanking out of his grip, I feel the tips of my ears burn in rage. “With them? If you’re referring to my parents, then yes, I am.”
He snickers, shaking his head. “Let her go, son,” Sylvia has the gall to say, looking down her noses at us. I know what she’s going to say even before she says it, but actually hearing it doesn’t soften the blow. “She’s a Brooks-Ferris. Nothing will ever change that. This is what you’re marrying into. Welcome to your future.”
You can hear a pin drop as the disturbance has caused most diners to look our way. These people love nothing better than a scandal, and what better scandal than this. I was stupid to think I was ever in their league because finally, I’ve come to realize that I’m not—I never will be.
I’m better. And so are my parents.
“After tonight, I wouldn’t be so sure.” I’m shaking in utter fury as I stand. This is the moment Lincoln needs to jump up and fight for what he wants—fight for me—but he doesn’t. He simply stares straight ahead, his jaw moving from side to si
de.
“I can’t believe you’re just going to sit there and not say anything.”
“I think you’ve said enough,” he bites back, still not having the common decency to look at me. Tears sting my eyes, and I choke on the bitter taste of betrayal.
“C’mon, Sweetie.” My mom gently loops her arm around my shoulder, her comforting fragrance cocooning me when I need it the most.
“So that’s it?” I press, unable to let it go. “The only thing that got you riled up tonight was the mere mention of Belle. What about the fact your mom slandered me and my parents? That didn’t offend you in the slightest?”
Sylvia scowls while Harold sighs, accustomed to this sort of drama. It’s just another Friday night for them.
“Lincoln?”
When he meets my eyes, I wish he didn’t. There is nothing there. “Just go, Holland.”
I blink once, his dismissal angering me more than hurting. “With pleasure. I’d say this was fun, but I’d be lying. Let’s never do this again.” Pulling back my shoulders, I smirk a million-dollar smile, never prouder. “And by the way, yes, we’re Brooks, and we’re Ferris’s, and we’re fucking proud of it.” Sylvia covers her gaping mouth while Lincoln places his head into his palms. Only then do I leave, with no intention of ever coming back.
My mother has never looked more delighted, and my father struts smugly, his head held high. We will never fit in, but that’s okay because we’ve found our tribe.
The air feels wonderful as it slaps at my heated cheeks. I take a moment to calm my raging nerves. Bending at the waist, I place my hands on my knees and take ten deep breaths. I feel somewhat better, but the urge to kill has yet to subside.
“Are you okay, Sweetie?”
I can’t believe my mom is asking me that, but I suppose that’s what family does—they care more about their loved ones than they do themselves. “I’m fine. I’m just sorry about the way Lincoln and his parents spoke to you. It was unacceptable.”
A small part of me hopes my parents jump to Lincoln’s defense, but they don’t. “I’ll pull the car around.” My father kisses me on the forehead before tightly hugging my mom. They share a silent exchange—its meaning one only they’re privy to. We watch after him, his figure getting smaller and smaller, symbolizing how I’m feeling inside.
