Page 84 of Best Kind of Trouble
“So you’re an advertiser.”
“It’s more like a public service.”
He wings his eyebrows up. “Oh? In what way?”
My mother rushes in with her housekeeper, Martha, who has a massive stack of towels, a trash bag, a mop, and a bottle ofmulti-purpose cleaner. The chef who cooked our dinner is following them, holding a tray with five dessert plates containing some kind of fruit tart I don’t want to eat.
“Let me clean it up,” I say as Liam gets up. “Please. I’m the one who made the mess.”
I don’t know Martha well—my mother always has a new housekeeper—but the woman must be at least sixty-five, and I don’t want her getting down on her knees to clean up after me.
“Honestly,” my mother says, rolling her eyes, “that’s what she’s here for.”
I ignore my mother. “I’m not trying to do your job, Martha, but it was my mess. I’d like to clean it.”
She silently checks in with my mom, who rolls her eyes again for posterity before nodding. Martha hands over the cleaning supplies, and Liam holds a trash bag open for me so I can pick up the rest of the glass. He helps mop up the floor, too, but Martha insists on bringing everything back to the kitchen herself.
My father chuckles to himself as Liam and I return to our seats.
“It’s like I told you, son.” He points a finger at the wooden plaque hanging over my head. “My daughter will never get anywhere because she cares too much about other people’s feelings. Make sure you don’t keep making the same mistake.”
I take a bite of the tart, which is probably delicious but tastes flavorless in my mouth.
“She’s always been like that,” Melly says, cutting into her fruit tart with the side of her fork. “Too sensitive.” Giving me a sly smile, she says, “Remember that time I borrowed your doll?”
My heart seizes in my chest. I can’t believe she’s actually admitting to it, talking about it as if it were nothing. As if it werefunny.
“Yes,” I say after a moment. “I remember.”
She flourishes her fork at me. “You know, your dad actually gave me twenty bucks to do that. He wanted to see how you’d react.”
My father shakes his head. “And of course she let you keep it for a whole week.”
The floor falls away beneath my feet. My father has always loved “throwing down the gauntlet,” as he likes to say, but I was six years old and homesick andscared. Losing that doll to someone I’d been told would be my friend had chipped away at the one solid piece in my foundation.
I get to my feet.
Liam stands up beside me, stepping closer so his side touches mine. Strength laps off of him, bolstering me. I can feel him telling me I can do this—I can finally take a stand.
Still staring at my father, I ask, “Did you tell her to chop off all my hair too?”
He looks surprised, thank God, but my rage doesn’t care. I’ve never been this angry before. I’ve always turned my fury on myself, but now I know my father has never been on my side. Never. I was just a game to him. A gamble. He never wanted me to succeed formysake.
“I think your recipe for success is bullshit and always has been,” I say.
My mother gasps. “Language, Briar.”
“Everyone thinks so.” I dart a look at Melly, who has whipped cream on the corner of her mouth. I wish I could take a photo. “And you’re not a real influencer,Melly. You only have eleven thousand followers on Instagram, and you live off your trust fund. I can only imagine you got connected to the paper through someone your father cut a deal with.”
Her pointed stare is probably supposed to be scathing. It probably would be if I cared what she thought of me anymore. “Your father just gave you a brewery, Briar. You’re hardly in a position to judge.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I don’t try to pretend to be something I’m not. Let’s go, Liam.”
He strolls around the table and grabs what’s left of the six-pack, shoving it into his rucksack before saluting my parents and Melly. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but I don’t lie for other people’s benefit if I don’t like them.”
He returns to me, pressing a steadying palm to the small of my back as we walk out of the room, heading toward the foyer. I can feel the support radiating from him. It’s the only thing saving me from hyperventilating.
When we reach the cold marble entryway, I realize there’s a flaw in my escape plan.
