Brighton clears her throat, buying time, but I go for it.
“Through friends,” I say.
“His cousin lived on my floor at Rothschild. She introduced us,” Brighton says. She isn’t a very convincing liar, but her parents nod and chew their food and drink their wine.
Most of our dinner consists of bits and pieces of small talk sandwiched between awkward pauses and bouts of silence, but that’s exactly how I imagined it would go from the moment I stepped foot inside their house in my ripped jeans and gray Pink Floyd t-shirt.
“What will the two of you do when Brighton goes back to school in the fall?” Temple asks, gaze passing between the two of us. “Or have you not discussed that yet?”
I place my fork down and turn to her, trying not to be obvious, trying to hide my annoyance at the fact that she left out one seemingly helpful detail.
A boyfriend would know if his girlfriend was going off to college in two months …
“Mom,” Brighton offers an embarrassed giggle. “We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks now. We’re taking things one day at a time.”
“Yes, but the summer will be over before you know it,” she says. “And then you’ll be an hour away. With all your studies and the distance, how will you find time to keep the flame going?”
Her father chimes in. “It’s a good thing I met your mother after medical school or I don’t know if we’d all be sitting here right now.”
Interesting she never mentioned anything about medical school. Never would’ve struck me as the future-doctor type.
“If it’s meant to be, we’ll find a way to make it work.” I say the kind of thing a lovestruck schmuck would say when trying to impress his future in-laws. “Fate has a funny way of making sure things work out exactly the way they’re supposed to, despite our best-laid plans.”
Temple covers her heart with a manicured hand—red nails to match her red lips—and she shoots her husband a smile from across the table. He smiles back, but only with his eyes.
A few minutes later, two women clear away our dishes and a man dressed in a chef’s uniform brings the final course—some kind of chocolate cake with multiple layers, each layer a different kind of chocolate.
When we’re finished and the final plates are cleared, Charles rises and makes his way to me.
“Madden,” he says. “Glad you could join us for dinner. I’d love to stay and get to know you a bit more, but I’ve got a late-night conference call to prepare for. Temple, I’ll be in my study if you need me.”
Charles leaves and Temple clears her throat, toying with the string of pearls around her neck.
“Well, I suppose,” she says, exhaling. “I should take my evening walk before the sun goes down. What do the two of you have planned this evening?”
Brighton looks to me, smiling and shrugging. “Thought I’d show him my room. Maybe give him a tour of the house?”
Girlfriend-y things …
Brighton slips her hand into mine and leads me to a curved staircase with a polished banister. I follow her up and she stops in front of the first door on the right.
“So … this is my room.” She lets go of my hand. I guess if her parents aren’t around, there’s no point in carrying on the lovey-dovey act.
“Pretty sure your room is bigger than my entire apartment.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not.”
I take in the abundance of white. White four-poster bed. White dresser. White nightstand. White desk. White bookcase. White quilt. The only non-white thing in here aside from the pale pink floral wallpaper is the bulletin board above her desk, which is littered with medals and ribbons and honor roll certificates.
She truly is their perfect little angel.
Brighton follows my gaze. “I told my mom there’s no point in displaying those. They’re so old. And who cares if you got first place in dressage when you were fifteen, you know?”
“The hell is dressage?”
She laughs. “Exactly.”
Studying all of her awards, I conclude that her parents were so busy controlling every last detail, every spare minute of her childhood and adolescence, that she never had a chance to be a kid.
Or a rebellious teenager.
Which is why she’s rebelling now, at twenty-two.
My gaze falls to a few framed photos resting on her desk, beneath her bulletin board, and I grab one. Brighton's hardly recognizable here, her skin more bronzed than it is now, her hair pulled back and covered in a hat, a man’s arm around her while a group of children in non-American clothing sit at their feet.
“Oh. That’s two summers ago in Myanmar,” she says. “Every summer after college, I’d tag along with my oldest brother while he did Doctors Without Borders. We’ve also been to Mozambique and Cambodia.”
I place the photo back where it was.
Brighton’s a good person, through and through.
I just hope I don’t ruin that for her.
25
Brighton
I leave the ChemTech Soil and Water Laboratories shortly after five o’clock the following Monday. It was my first job interview, but I’m left with a sense of accomplishment and also relief.
The woman who interviewed me said she’d make her decision by the end of next week, and if I don’t hear from her by then, I should call and ask to speak with her.
It isn’t my dream job to test soil and water, and the pay isn’t amazing, but I’ve done the math, and on the lab technician’s salary, I can afford a small studio apartment in this area with enough left over for a car payment, incidentals, and other living expenses.
The lab isn’t too far from Olwine, so I stop by Madd Inkk on my way home.
I park my car in the back lot and head to the side entrance to his building, trekking up the stairs to his apartment. He took the day off, something about getting Devanie registered for school and taking care of a few errands, but he told me to stop by any time after five.
This past weekend, Madden met my parents, which actually went better than I thought it would. I could tell they weren’t crazy about him, but they were cordial enough and so far, they’ve yet to say anything.
I think they’re biting their tongues, certain that things will cool off and we’ll go our separate ways as soon as I go back to school this fall …
Knocking on Madden’s door when I reach the top landing, I replay bits and pieces of today's interview in my mind, analyzing and then re-analyzing and then over-analyzing my responses, trying my hardest to view them from an objective standpoint and assure myself that they were the best answers I could’ve given.
There’s so much riding on this job, namely freedom, that I can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop getting my hopes up, can’t stop ruminating on all the good things that can come from having my own money and being completely independent.
“Hey.” Madden answers the door a moment later, pulling me in and shutting it behind me. A second later, my back is against the door and his mouth claims mine.
He isn’t wasting any time.
When I come up for air, I say, “Hi to you too.”
His hands slip beneath my top, then beneath my bra, and he cups my breasts as he buries his face into the side of my neck. Pressing his hips against me, the outline of his hardness confirms he’s revved and raring to go.
A moment later, he lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his hips, and then he carries me to his bed. He works his belt next, and I slide my skirt down.
As much as I want him and as much as I know I’m going to enjoy this, I can’t help but stay fixated on today’s interview.
By the time we’re both naked, he climbs over top of me, his fingertips trailing down my side and detouring between my legs, where he teases my clit with his thumb before sliding a finger inside me. It hurts a little, as I'm slightly dry down there, but within a few seconds it starts to feel good.
His mouth claims mine again, and I lift my arms over his broad shoulders, trying my hardest to focus, but my mind and my body are on completely different pages.
And then he stops, his arms extended as he hovers above me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up and leaning on my elbows. My hands splay across the cold sheets.
“You’re not turned on.” He climbs off me, the strangest look on his face, as if this moment doesn’t compute.
“It’s okay, just keep going. I’ll get there.” I reach for him in an attempt to pull him back, but he dodges out of the way. “Madden.”
“If you’re not into it, you’re not into it,” he says.
“But I will be.”
“You’re not a fuck doll, Brighton.” He climbs off the bed and slips into his dark gray boxers.
I grab the nearest sheet and wrap it around me, suddenly feeling overexposed and underdressed.
“I’m sorry.” I place a flattened palm over my forehead. “I guess I have a lot on my mind.”
“Don’t apologize.” He slips his jeans on next. If he’s disappointed, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. “It’s cool. No worries.”
I climb out of his bed and gather my clothes as he takes a seat in the living room and grabs a sketch pad and ink pen off the messy coffee table.