Page 65 of Sing Your Secrets

twenty

Reese

Daddy-daughter studio Sundays are supposed to entail me, my dad, Pizza Pockets, beer—well, now, non-alcoholic beer—and a couple of hours messing around in his in-home studio. What it should not involve is my uppity controlling mother who insists on having a sit-down, three-course dinner. All I wanted to do tonight was talk to Dad about Miles’s music, but I can’t in front of Mom.

I don’t want her to know music is on my mind again. I don’t want her to know my new guy is wrapped up in what she calls ridiculous fantasies too.

Poking at my roast chicken leg, I glower at Dad who doesn’t notice because he’s actually listening to my mom chatter on about her court win this week.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Mom says animatedly as she slams her fist on the table, “they handed over the incriminating documents without even knowing it.” Her smile is wicked. “The look on their faces when I showed the judge exactly how much money was embezzled from their own records.”

“My baby is a killer in the courtroom.”

Oh, gross. Together, or not—who wants to hear their parents call each other baby?

Dad widens his eyes at me across his new dining table in a clear command. Come to think of it, the living room has a new couch. These nice white porcelain plates are definitely new…

“Your mom is pretty impressive, isn’t she?” Dad asks unsubtly.

“Definitely,” I mumble in a monotone. Dad shoots me a pointed look so I add, “I’m glad it worked out, Mom. Good job. Atta girl.” What the actual hell? Did I just “atta girl” my mom? The words taste as awkward as they sound. Dammit.

It’s not that I don’t want Mom here. But all of us together? It doesn’t mix. Most of my childhood was listening to her bitch about what a deadbeat, whore-hungry, waste of space Dad was…and now they are playing footsie? What’s the appropriate age for a midlife crisis? Mom’s forty-five, a mid-life crisis would be right on schedule…

“Thanks, honey.” Mom clears her throat. “How’s Henley doing these days?”

“Fine, I guess. I don’t see him much. I mostly do research and paperwork for his associates. Eli Walsh—know him?”

She shakes her head, and her long blonde hair, straight and smooth, falls down her shoulder. Odd. I rarely see my mom without a neatly coiled bun at the nape of her neck. “Are you guys involved?”

“Why do you ask that?” My chicken leg is suddenly very interesting and I need all my focus to wedge my fork tine between the meat and the perfectly roasted chicken skin.

Mom circles her face with her finger. “I don’t know, you had this look on your face when you said his name. Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

Well, we slept together off and on for a year, so you assumed right.“Eli and I are just friends. He’s a really good mentor.”

“Ah, okay,” she says, picking up her fork and knife. Slicing through her piece of white meat, she bites her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold back her next comment. She must change her mind quickly because after taking a big bite, chewing like a rabid bunny, and swallowing so hard I hear the gulp, she blurts out, “Speaking of mentors—”

“Robin—”

“What?” She shrugs her shoulders like she’s innocent. “She’s my daughter too.”

“We just had a conversation about how when you push her—you push her away. Remember? You said you wanted to connect with your daughter.” Dad’s tone is coddling and not his usual exasperated breathy drawl when speaking to my mother.

“I understand that, but she needs to understand she’s supported, we see her potential, and want her to strive for the best. No one can enjoy their life in Denver off of an entry-level paralegal’s salary. It’s either further her career, or get married, and she hasn’t had a relationship since Pet—”

I clear my throat. “You guys see me sitting right here, right? Care to include me in this conversation about me?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Mom turns to face me. Her eyes turn animated, but her smile is pressed. “One of the new lawyers at my company runs a tutoring program on the weekends, specifically for people with test anxiety. He’s helped students who failed the LSATs, and the Bar, turn things completely around. He has a spot in his next class—”

“Mom.”

“I know the LSATs are a tough test. I just don’t want you to give up on your—”

“Mom.” I set my fork back down. I’m satisfied with the soup and salad we ate before the lemon roast chicken was even out of the oven. Why she’s cooking like we’re hosting the president tonight, I’m not sure. “I don’t have test anxiety.”

“Then what is it? You’re a smart girl, Reese, you can do better than 150s on the LSATs.” Well, she held it in as long as she could, but there’s that bossy tone again. I want to let the word vomit unleash right now and tell her my actual test scores were in the top three percent, and while she couldn’t get into Stanford Law, I did. But if I told her that, I’d also have to tell her the reason I lied to her about my potentially brag-worthy legal career is…

From the bottom of my heart…