“Right,” I say. “Thank you. It’s been…nice.”
Brittany folds her arms defiantly. Christian shoots her a look but doesn’t push her to agree.
Our first course arrives. I drape the cloth napkin across my lap and command my eyes not to roll as Brittany brags about her social media follow count and how all her other friends are “so jealous” that she got to swim with dolphins—never mind that she immediately scampered out of the water as soon as the post went live.
This is nice…
A few moments of silence pass as we all taste our food, and while I know what I’m putting in my mouth is five-star cuisine, it all tastes bland to me.
This…is…nice.
“Petra and I have an announcement,” Christian says.
A sense of dread dawns in my stomach as he reaches for my mother’s hand; she lets him take it with all the enthusiasm of someone reporting for jury duty.
“We decided it would be best to get married here in St. Thomas. After all, no one could ask for a better honeymoon.” His voice is even and measured, like he’s talking about the weather, not his marriage.
I squeeze my fork so hard I swear I feel it bend.
“When are you planning to do it?” I ask.
My mother’s throat shifts as she swallows.
“It’s done,” she says.
I forget how to breathe.
“What?” Brittany snaps, scrunching up her face. “You guys had a wedding and didn’t tell us?”
“There was no ceremony,” Christian says. “We went to the local courthouse and got our marriage license.”
“How romantic,” she mutters.
“We’ll have a ceremony next summer,” my mom says, with feigned enthusiasm. “You girls can help plan it, if you’d like.”
“Whatever.” I’m not sure how much Brittany knows about the real reason behind our parents’ marriage. But judging by her lackluster, “Congrats,” and how quickly her attention shifts back to her dinner, I think it’s safe to say she doesn’t care enough to question it.
If reactions were on a spectrum, then Brittany and I would be on complete opposite ends. Instead of forcing myself to produce an emotional reaction, I’m fighting not to fall apart.
Christian’s gaze darts toward me as he releases my mom’s hand. I twist my napkin in my lap and command my lips to curve.
“I didn’t realize you guys were going to do it so soon,” I tell them. “Congratulations.”
Mom gives me a secret, grateful smile. She knows I’m faking it, but she doesn’t know exactly what I’m faking or why.
I push my salad around my plate and pray for the ground to swallow me whole, as my mom and Christian launch into a conversation about the two of us moving into his apartment when we get back to the mainland. I know I should take Brittany’s lead and pull out my phone, anything to distract myself, but I can’t.
The initial shock of their news has washed away, leaving anger and betrayal in its wake.
How could he still marry my mom after what happened between us? Everything moved so fast, I didn’t even have time to decide whether I was going to tell her about it. I still don’t know if I should tell her, but now I feel like I can’t.
Looking down, I let my hair fall like a curtain around my face, blocking out most of my view. I spend the rest of the dinner like that, with my head down and my fists clenched around my utensils as I pretend to eat.
“May I take your plate?” our server asks finally.
I nod. When she reaches over to pick up my dish, I chance a glance in Christian’s direction and find him watching me. My breath catches. His crestfallen expression is so clear and anguished that I almost reach across the table to smooth out the crease between his eyes. It’s a look of such longing and regret that it makes me wonder if he might still care about me.
But then I blink, and that yearning expression is gone, if it was ever there in the first place.
I can’t take another second of this. I slide my chair back and stand up a little too quickly, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I’m tired. I’m going back to the room.”
I don’t give anyone a chance to respond before I start walking, each step heavier and more labored than the last, like I’m trudging through mud.
Back in the suite, I don’t bother to change my clothes before I curl up in bed with the blankets over my head and tears streaming onto the pillow.
This is not nice. Not nice at all…
CHAPTER 7
CHRISTIAN
“You really don’t have to help us unpack, Christian,” Petra says.
I look over and find her leaning against the kitchen island with a weary expression. She seems to be having more bad days than good lately.
“It’s not a problem at all, really.”
After Dan’s boss came and took everything the girls couldn’t carry on their backs, there isn’t much here to unpack. Most of what I’m unloading is kitchen appliances and utensils that I asked her to order under the guise of wanting her to have everything she needed to entertain guests.