"In a small town in Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia," I respond. Let the interview begin.
"And what do your parents do?"
"My mom owns her own stationary store, and my father works in advertising," I murmur, waiting. But no snide remark from Blythe comes. No comment that my parents are divorced—something I'm sure the Keaton's would not approve of—or that the small town I come from is in the middle of farm country—something I'm sure they would find quaint but not acceptable.
Confused, I scrunch my eyebrows, glancing at Blythe. But she is sipping her cocktail, smiling politely in my direction. And I realize something when she meets my gaze—there are clock hands ticking in the center of her pupils. She's biding her time. I'm safe for a little while. But my stomach tightens in knots—when exactly is that countdown in her head going to hit zero?
"Your mother owns her own business?" Mr. Keaton nods approvingly.
"Yes," I say, jumping on the opportunity to impress while I still can. "The shop is sort of a cross between a design studio and a retail store. A lot of the cards we sell are from other merchants, but she does a lot of custom invitations for local events and weddings. I'm trying to help her expand, so I just recently put together a website for her to help reach a broader customer base."
Dang. That sounded pretty legitimate.
I sit up a little straighter.
"Very savvy of you," he comments. I grin, sipping my water.
But then a rumble vibrating against my thigh distracts me. Patrick shifts, reaching into his pocket, stealing the warmth of his body heat away and I'm left cold. He stands, signaling that he has to go with his fingers, pointing to the side.
The conference call.
I watch him disappear around the corner, veins turning to ice when I shift back around and catch Blythe's stare.
Time's up.
Her eyes practically blaze with excitement.
"So, Skylar, you work with Blythe at the newspaper?" Mr. Keaton asks.
I jump in before Blythe has time to comment. "I do. I'm also an assistant for the style section, and I write my own column, all about dating in the city in your twenties."
"How wonderful, your own column," he says. And I breathe easy for a moment. Mr. Keaton is actually very sweet—it's just the women in this family that have issues it seems.
"Which column?" Mrs. Keaton purrs from her teacup.
I swallow. Something in her tone unnerves me. The same prickly sweetness of her daughter. "Um, you probably haven’t read it."
"Skylar, don't be so modest, of course she has. Everyone has," Blythe chimes in. I close my eyes, taking a moment to breathe.
Oh god.
Oh god.
"She writes it under a penname. Cooper Quinn?"
That's it. I'm done for.
But no bomb explodes. There's no screaming. No kicking me out. No reaction. I release the breath I was holding, exhaling slowly. The world hasn't ended. The earth is still intact. I open my eyes.
"Oh, Cooper Quinn?" Her mother pauses. And then she smiles. And for a second, I think—this cannot be happening. She reads my column? And approves? I almost want to point and laugh at Blythe—victory is so, so sweet. Her mom continues, and the sinking expression on Blythe's face is enough for me. "I recognize that name. I do read that column, all the ladies—"
Mrs. Keaton stops dead.
My heart follows, screeching to a halt. The elation in my chest evaporates as realization dawns, a flip switching in the depths of her hazel eyes, which are slowly narrowing to slits. Blythe's smug expression pierces like a knife.
"You write that column?" Mrs. Keaton asks.
I start to choke on my own breath, reaching for my glass of water, finding it painfully empty. Where are those servants when you actually need them?
"And, PK, is Patri…" She trails off into silence. Every word she's ever read in my column flickers in her gaze, every lewd detail she perhaps gossiped about with friends or read with shocked curiosity, devoured like a penny novel. Every little bit she once found entertaining is now turning utterly grotesque in her mind.
My face is turning beet red, I just know it. And Blythe is taking a mental picture by my side, grinning triumphantly. Mr. Keaton just looks confused. But I can’t take my eyes off of the ever-rising eyebrows of Mrs. Keaton, the accusation in her glare, the utterly disapproving purse of her lips.
And I finally have an answer to my question about what could be worse than my own mother finding out I write a sex column. It’s my boyfriend's mother finding out I write a sex column about her son.
I sit back in the chair, leaning into the cushion, trying to shrink—wondering if I can disappear if I just think hard enough.
But I don't.
Her eyes nail me in place.
I just bite my lip and sigh. This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.
Patrick and I don't speak about his parents again. I mean, radio silence. As the Christmas season passes, we get sugar-high on hot chocolate, ice skate, go shopping, see a holiday show, have a wicked snowball fight, but we don’t speak a word about that night. And I have no idea what that means.
I haven't been alone with Ollie since the mistletoe incident—as that moment will henceforth be known. Sure, I've seen him—I mean, we live together. There's no way around that. But if he's in the kitchen, I'm in the living room. If Bridget's not home, I'm safe behind the closed door of my bedroom. And right now, stepping through the front door of the McDonough home for Christmas Eve dinner, I don’t ever want to leave my mother's side.
"Look at your hand!" Bridge calls as soon as we step through the door.
I hold my wrist up, grinning. "No more cast, no more splint! My mom and I went to the doctor this morning."
She runs a finger over my wilted skin. "It looks…"
"I know." I shake my head, flexing my stiff muscles. The skin around my wrist is pasty white, like sickly, and the entire area is noticeably smaller than my other wrist. "It looks disgusting."
"No." She shakes her head, grabbing my other hand to pull me inside. "It looks like a Christmas miracle."
I lift an eyebrow, asking, "Did you get started on the eggnog a little early?"
Bridge pauses. "Maybe…"
But we've entered the kitchen before I can respond, and I'm immediately pulled into two enthusiastic embraces.
"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. McDonough. Merry Christmas," I murmur into the sweaters my face has been pressed into. Ollie remains on the other side of the room, idly stirring a pot on the stovetop. He glances in my direction, but I think he knows I don't want him to come any closer.
"It's so nice to have everyone together." Bridge's mom sighs, looking around with a goofy smiled plastered across her lips. "I don't think all six of us have been in a room together in years."
Four and a half years, if we're being exact. But who's counting?
My eyes drop away from Ollie and I lean into my mom's shoulder. The conversation turns to the multitude of Christmas cards taped to the fridge, half of which my mom designed for locals—McDonough family included. I listen politely, smiling, just taking comfort in my mom's presence. Or well, I was, until my eyes veered to the right and ran into Bridge's wide, imploring expression.