Gilt_ By Invitation Only - Geneva Lee Page 0,21

those plans still included me finding a husband, just one that would help her indoctrinate me to her lifestyle instead of the one I’d chosen.

“You aren't graduating from one of the premier prep schools in the country to go to community college. This is exactly what Hans and I are worried about.” Her voice takes on a blustery tone, the one she uses to dismiss maids and bad foie gras. That means I’ve landed somewhere between the help and duck liver on her priority list.

I grip my salad fork and butter knife, because I need something to hold onto—something tangible and solid. Between dead bodies and college applications, this weekend is quickly becoming anything but relaxing. This is exactly what happens when you bypass Netflix in favor of living people. The only person who would understand isn’t here. Her memory isn’t even allowed.

“What are you worried about, Vivian? Having an embarrassment for a daughter? That would be a tragedy. Oh wait. You actually lost a daughter.” I don’t stop when she sucks in a pained breath, because I hope it hurt her. She needs to prove to me that she can feel something other than disdain and chemical dependency. “Did it even occur to you that Becca should be graduating this weekend?”

“Of course it occurred to me!” she snaps in a low voice. It takes a lot of skill to be pissed and still maintain your face in a crowd. “Do you think a day goes by without thinking of her? But Becca isn't here. You didn't die that night, Emma. I wish I could be discussing her college plans with her right now, but I can’t.”

So now what? I’m supposed to feel sorry for her. No freaking way. The utensils clatter out of my hands as I stand up in a rush, searching for the next way to needle her. Angry feels good. Vital. It’s like a dose of adrenaline straight to my blood, and I can see it’s having the same affect on her.

“Sit down,” she hisses.

But maybe she’s not ready to jump from practiced oblivion to all-consuming rage yet. I consider my options. I can storm out of here and hope it provides even more of a shock to her anti-depressant-riddled system or I can prove that I’m the adult she’s afraid I’m becoming.

I sit down. Nothing rattles a parent’s cage like fear.

“Accepting that she’s gone might sound harsh to you,” she whispers hurriedly, her eyes darting around the room to see if people are watching our little scene, “but it's the truth. I miss her, too. I've already taken two Xanax this morning. Truthfully, she is the reason that I'm here. I never should have left you two with your father.”

“Is that why you want me to come to Palm Springs this summer?” I ask. Her guilt is misplaced. She shouldn’t feel bad that she left us with our father, she should feel bad that she didn’t want to be our mother anymore.

“Partially,” she admits. Her new drink arrives and she clutches it like a security blanket. “Honey, you're a teenager. You shouldn't spend all your time taking care of your dad.

“Someone has to.” It's supposed to be your job. Apparently my mother had missed the whole for richer or poorer line in her wedding vows. She might have been able to walk away from her marriage with no regrets but I couldn't give up on dad. He'd already lost one daughter.

“Consider it. I want you to have a nice time this summer.”

I do, too. Working at Pawnography isn’t exactly my dream vacation, but I’d chosen where my loyalties lay a long time ago.“With all the has-beens? Palm Springs isn't exactly a happening place, Mom.”

“It’s quiet,” she corrects me, and she has a point. Vegas isn’t exactly known for its calming presence. No, it’s energy is exciting at best and frantic at worst.

It’s one of the reasons I usually don’t mind going to Palm Springs. Yes, the population skews toward senior citizen, but it lacks the stimulus overload of my hometown. Usually, I spend my time there each summer reading by the pool. Hans would stay in L.A., shooting dailies or overseeing edits so Becca and I could hang out with mom. We'd get our nails done and shop for the new school year. We stayed just long enough to pretend that our family wasn’t a dysfunctional mess.

“I know your sister won't be there this year,” Mom says in a quiet voice. I don’t miss the