Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 7: The Plastic Bouquet

"Oh." Mom takes a sip of juice, shrugging. "Only time will tell. It's a real shame though, I always thought Amber and Lyon were so good together." She glances between me and Tom. "Like you two."

I nearly choke on my bread.

"Thank you, Susan." Tom reaches across the table and grabs my hand. He stares affectionately into my eyes, his own full of narrated fantasy. "I'd like to think Em and I here would defy those nasty divorce statistics when the time comes."

"Are you..." Dad clears his throat, eyes wide. "I mean, did you ask—"

"God no!" I yank my hand away, laughing nervously. I immediately give Tom a reassuring smile. You're such a fucking bitch. It's almost funny. "I mean, we're definitely not there yet, you know?"

"I did ask Emery to move in with me though," Tom proudly announces, and my smile dwindles into an unappreciative frown. The man is a damn billboard tonight. He addresses only my parents when he adds, "Your daughter still hasn't given me an answer."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mom clasps her hands. "Emery! What are you waiting for? I think this is a fabulous idea. Simply fabulous." She snaps her head at my dad. "Did you hear that Phillip? Emery and Tom are moving in together!"

"Are you deaf?" I blurt out. "He said I haven't given him an answer yet. God, why do you always do that?"

Mom's face falls, and I feel immediate guilt. "Emery..."

"I'm sorry." I close my eyes. "I didn't mean to—"

"I think she's just a little nervous to live with a man," Tom pipes up, cutting the tension between me and my mother. He tosses me a wink. "But don't worry, Em. I promise to keep the toilet seat down."

"I'm not concerned about—" I stop myself. What's the point? It's not like they care. "Tom, why don't you tell my parents about that new project at work, hmm? He's working on this... What it's called again?"

For the rest of dinner, I sit between my parents and Tom. Smiling. Nodding. Offering a laugh at the appropriate time. They talk around me. To me. Through me. Like I'm not there. Like I'm fucking invisible. I could leave right now and they might not even notice. They're discussing my life, my future, and I'm not even a part of the conversation. I could speak up. I could say something. I could let them know my thoughts and feelings. I could...but I don't want to. Just like they don't care, I don't either. What difference does it make?

"What's on your mind, Em?" Tom asks, glancing at me as rain pitters against the windshield of his hatchback. "You haven't said a word since we left."

I haven't said I word since dessert actually.

"Why do you like me?" I ask honestly.

A frown mars Tom's brows. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I asked," I say, following a raindrop as it collides with another and fuses into one. "Why do you like me?"

"What's not to like?" Tom grins. "You're intelligent, you're beautiful, you're easygoing—" He pauses, chuckling, "You're a whiz at Sudoku, which, I might add, is a huge green flag."

"Right," I hum, leaning against the seatbelt. Easygoing? That's one of my top three attributes? Does that mean I'm a pushover? If you were a pushover, I'm sure Damon would be force-feeding you caviar right now while naming your tits, Tatiana and Tonya. I chuckle to myself, our conversation replaying in my head. "Tom..."

"Yes?"

"Do you think I'm..." I alter his comment. I don't like riddles. "Difficult to read?"

Tom laughs. "Of course not, Em. That's one of the many things I like about you. What you see is what you get."