Thankfully, everybody already has plans for house parties that begin as early as an hour after prom begins, so I’m hopeful Mason won’t want to stay too long, and we can both leave long before it’s over.
“Well, you’ve done a good job avoiding both of them. Just like they deserve,” she says, cutting into my thoughts. “Especially if they’re pulling the same game of replacing each other.”
Avoiding them hasn’t been easy. Not when there are two of them actively looking for me around every corner. After realizing under the willow tree that they were both messing with me, I’d walked out from behind that curtain of branches so fucking pissed that I swore they would never get near me again.
The first few days were tough, but then the weekend came and went, both Ezra and Damon returning to school on Monday with new bruises and cuts, their attitudes so aggressive that they’d given up on me and terrorized anyone who got near them.
I’ve noticed a pattern with that. Every other weekend something happens to them. It usually takes them a week to calm down after whatever happens that causes those bruises, and then they’re back to their usual selves for another week after.
It’s a never-ending cycle, at least as long as I’ve been watching. And to say I wasn’t angry to see the new bruises would be a lie.
I was enraged.
Livid.
I wanted to march right up to them and demand answers about what was going on. I wanted to destroy whoever was causing those bruises.
But I didn’t because I was also still mad at them.
“Are you leaving to get your hair and other stuff done soon?”
Pulling on my shoe, I groan. “Yes. I have to meet my mom in a few.”
On Ivy’s end of the line, I hear another voice, soft and feminine, a question being asked that I can’t quite make out.
“Who’s that?”
It’s Ivy’s turn to groan.
“I’m babysitting,” she teases, her soft laughter rolling through the line when the person in her room complains.
“My dad’s friend stopped by, and they asked me to hang out with his daughter, Brinley, for an hour before I leave to get my hair and stuff done. She claims being five years younger than me doesn’t mean she’s still a kid. I beg to differ.”
The two of them argue back and forth, Ivy’s laughter loud before she finally speaks to me again. “Brinley just told me that her friend, Everly, is our age and doesn’t think she’s a kid.”
Chuckling at the way Ivy is gently teasing the girl when they immediately start arguing again, my head snaps up to hear a knock at my door.
“Ugh. My mom is here. I have to go.”
“Go get beautiful. I’ll see you at prom.”
Hanging up, my eyes close, and I fight the urge to sneak out a window and run away.
An entire day with my mother is bad enough, but knowing Mason will be here at seven for the awkward, stiff photos we always take, followed by the stygian silence of the limo ride we’ll take to prom, makes the nightmare even worse.
I push to my feet and open the door regardless, ever the loyal daughter.
As usual, my mother regards me with a practiced expression. Not love. Not comfort. Not warmth. Just the same distant politeness she affords every acquaintance.
“We should go,” is all she says as she turns to lead me through the children’s wing and out to our waiting car.
The day continues on as expected. Every so often while my hair is being curled and pinned, while my nails are being shaped, buffed and painted, and while my makeup is being applied with what must be a spatula for how thick it is, my mother reminds me of my role in life.
You’re promised to Mason Strom.
You are to act with grace and decorum.
Mason calls the shots, and you’re to happily go along with them.
And always, always, remember to smile.
Even the hairdresser, nail tech and makeup artist glance at my mother like she’s insane. But I smile because one wrong move will trigger my mother’s unhappiness.
Not that I care too much about her happiness, especially when I’m miserable, but when she’s unhappy, my father is unhappy, which only leads to me being put on lockdown.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about telling them all to fuck off.
I’m eighteen now.
Technically an adult.
Per law, I can make my own decisions.
Those decisions also carry consequences, and without a job, a degree or anything else that would help me support myself, pulling the adult card would only leave me homeless.
It’s difficult to claim you’re an adult when you have no means of doing all the normal adult things.
That’s the reason I have no choice but to always remember to smile.
It’s also why I’m still smiling when the doorbell rings later that night.
Already, my mother has guided me to my usual position for this godawful tradition:
On the third step of the large winding staircase that faces the foyer, my arms delicately placed on the banister, my spine straight, shoulders rounded yet feminine, and my mind buried in so much misery I think I might barf.
Apparently, I’m not the only one.
As soon as my mother opens the door with her usual flourish, and after our fathers clap each other on the shoulders before shaking hands, Mason walks in looking just as miserable as me.
He doesn’t bother to look up at where he knows I’m standing. We’ve done this more times than I can count, and each time feels worse than the last.
Still, Mason looks gorgeous.
Standing at six foot three, he hasn’t fully filled out in the shoulders and chest to match his height, but his lean physique is perfectly complemented by the cut of his suit, the jacket just a touch darker than his hair, and the white shirt doing nothing to hide his flat, toned stomach where it’s tucked into pants that hint to his narrow waist and muscular thighs.
I’m sure our mothers were the ones who coordinated his tie to match the emerald color of my dress.
After our parents are done with their discussions, my father touches Mason’s shoulder to guide his attention to me as a grand presentation of the woman who waits on the stairs to be noticed.
The formality of this tradition is insanely ridiculous, but here we are, doing it for the hundredth time.
Mason’s light blue eyes finally flick up my direction, his lips tilting down into a scowl at the corners, but I smile regardless. Only because my mother would murder me if I didn’t.
We manage to make it through another round of stiff photographs, our bodies barely touching as he places the corsage on my arm, and I pin the boutonniere to his lapel, the flash of the camera blinding both of us so badly that we have to be careful making our way back down the stairs.
“Are they old enough?” Mason’s mom asks, her voice regal and teasing.
My mother laughs in response. “Oh, I think so.”
Both Mason and I look up in horror when our mothers say in unison, “Let’s get a picture of their first kiss.”
Our fathers laugh next, and my dad makes the joke, “Just a quick peck. Don’t be getting any ideas for later, Mason. Save that for the wedding night.”
Oh, my God.
Somebody kill me now.
While my cheeks heat up enough to match the dark red hue of my hair, Mason is able to hide his horror better, but I still don’t miss the quiet groan sounding low in his throat.