Eligible Ex-husband - Marie Johnston Page 0,69

something. I’ll never give them reason to think I’m a money-grabber.

As we wait for the food, everyone has someone to talk to. Except for me. Simon is justifying his business decisions to his father. Why can’t Trent just talk to him like a colleague at the very least? Phyllis is drawing pictures with the girls. My mom does the same thing, only she manages to chat with me at the same time.

Each minute ticks by excruciatingly slow until the food arrives. I’m grateful for something to do.

I take as long as I can to eat my food. Phyllis tells the girls how she had something similar to the pasta dish she ordered when she was in Paris. Only her description makes the Paris one sound like it was served on a gold platter and covered in diamond flakes.

The only item left on my plate is the mashed parsnips. I set my fork down and put my napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say to no one in particular and I don’t know that anyone paid any attention.

My face burns as I make my way to the restroom. The chicken sits heavy in my stomach like a block of lead. A wave of nausea surges and then ebbs.

Slipping into the single restroom, I peek at the door next to it. Good. More than one. I don’t have to hurry. It’s not like anyone will notice that I’m gone.

After I lock the door, I lean on the cool granite counter. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are glassy. My stomach clenches and for a moment, I fear my meal is going to make a return trip.

I suck in deep breaths. I can’t believe I’m this upset over Phyllis and Trent’s treatment of me. The idea that I should be used to it doesn’t make me feel better, but still. I should be used to it.

I close my eyes and take measured breaths. Eventually, the nausea passes and my energy is sapped.

I lean against the counter. God, I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to be in this silk blouse. I don’t want to wear these pants or heels. I want to be in shorts and a tank top and yank some weeds out of my flower bed.

But I’m here. I’m being a good role model for the girls even if they might not understand it for years.

Does a good role model sit and sulk through the whole meal when one of the most important people in her life asked her to come for moral support?

He and I are together in this. I need to go out there and help deflect the hurtful comments.

I open the door. Simon’s waiting against the opposite wall, his chin tipped down, his eyes searching mine.

“That bad?” His voice is low.

I peer down the hallway. His parents and the kids can’t see us.

“I’m not feeling well.” I let out a gusty sigh. “And yeah, it’s the usual. Your mother gets in a few digs and then ignores me. Your father pretends I don’t exist. But it’s not going well for you, is it?”

His mouth tightens and he nods. “Think you can make it through the rest of the meal, or should we go?”

I wave my hand. “I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“We’re in this together. You have three number one fans sitting at your table.”

“They happen to be my three favorite people.” He holds his arm out.

We walk back to the table, me tucked into his side. His father’s back is to us, but his mother’s gaze lands on us and jumps away, her lips thinning.

It doesn’t get to me like it should’ve. I have moral support too.

Simon

“Do you talk to any of your old friends from Wharton?” Dad sips the last of his wine.

Looking at my dad hurts. I see an older Liam. When we were younger, I never thought Liam looked like Father as much as others claimed. But the last time I saw him, after years of working in the high-stress investment field and in a marriage that wasn’t the fairy tale Liam thought it’d be, he resembled our father. Fine lines fanning out around his eyes and a few grays popping out at the temples.

My father is almost all gray now. Mother probably would be too, but she’ll never let anyone see it. Natalie once commented that they probably flew back to Pennsylvania every six weeks so Mother wouldn’t miss a