Mars flickers into my mind and I remember how softly he touched my hand. He looked at the color on my fingers with awe. Not disgust like Mom.
“Wash your hands and let’s go,” Mom says, snatching me away from my thoughts of Mars.
“Okay,” I mumble before heading to the sink. I listen as her heels click out of the kitchen and toward the foyer. Dad shoots me an apologetic smile before he rubs my shoulder.
“Just think, when you get home, you can finish that awesome dragonfly you’re working on.” When he winks at me, I smile. He’s so handsome. It’s easy to see why Mom married him.
For a man in his forties, he’s incredibly fit and strong, with hair brown as mahogany, and eyes to match. His high cheekbones make him look years younger than he is. All the ladies in Mom’s group swoon when he smiles at them. She hates it but Dad doesn’t pay them any attention. All he can see is her.
“You’ve been spying on my art,” I tease. A smirk plays on my lips.
“I have to or else I’d never know what beauty you’re up there making.”
“That’s not true.” I laugh a little and shut the water off before inspecting my hands. They’re not paint-free but it’s as close as they’re going to get.
“What made you paint such a cool looking dragonfly?” he asks. “You hate bugs.” He’s right. Bugs of all sorts creep me the hell out.
“A new barista at The Grind House made me a latte with a dragonfly on top, and I thought it was really cool,” I tell him. I can’t help smiling when I think about the artful way Mars poured cream on top of my drink. It makes my ears warm and my palms tingly.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this new barista is a guy.” Dad taps the tips of my ears and I feel heat inching up my neck, dying to settle on my cheeks.
“Oh God, Dad.” I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“Sage, let’s go!” Mom’s voice is like a sword through a warm, tender moment. I shoot Dad a look that says sorry before I dash to the foyer.
The autumn dinner is being held at Giovanni’s, an Italian restaurant with nothing on the menu under twenty dollars. Mom clearly went all out.
I feel my chest aching from the weight of the stone wall, so I stare down at the soft white linen napkin in my lap. I wonder how it would look drenched in colors. My fingers paint an invisible dragonfly in the center of the napkin.
I wish I had wings right about now. I’d fly the fuck away from this dinner.
I try to pull in a breath but my chest won’t allow it. It’s too compressed. I wonder if anyone can tell I’m being crushed. I look up for a moment to see Leah and Sophia staring at me from across the table. They look at each other when I catch their eyes and start to laugh.
I hate it so much. Prickly heat blankets my neck and ears. I should have told Mom I was sick or something.
Without thinking, I tap my knuckle against my lips while I look around the long rectangular table at a bunch of women whom I’ve never held a real conversation with. Most of them wouldn’t know a real conversation if it hit them in the face.
The thought makes me snort. Mom sends daggers my way. Her eyes narrow and I grab the glass of water in front of me so I don’t get caught in her crosshairs.
I lift the heavy crystal to my lips but the vibrating phone in my purse causes my fingers to slip. Ice water drenches my chest and thighs, pulling a sharp gasp from me. I spring from my chair and shake drops of water from my blouse.
“Sage,” Mom’s voice is tight and hard as she reprimands me for splashing the ladies in front of me. “Go to the bathroom,” she hisses.
No need to tell me twice. I bolt, wobbling uncomfortably in my heels. My ribs must be dust by now. The stone wall of anxiety that lives in my mind has crushed me beyond repair.
What a way to fuck up.
I blot my shirt with cloth napkins stacked in the bathroom and mutter curse words beneath my breath. Goosebumps blanket my skin as my teeth chatter.
The bathroom door squeaks open and Mom appears. “What were you thinking, Sage? Do you know how badly you’ve embarrassed me?” She snatches the napkin from my fingers and throws it down. My eyes follow its descent to the counter.
“It was an accident,” I explain. I wrap my arms around my middle and squeeze to generate warmth.
“An accident,” she scoffs. “Your blouse is see-through now. You can’t possibly sit at the dinner table showing everyone your bra. Is it too much to ask for you to just sit and smile?”