kissing me on the cheek and putting a little too much pressure on my arm as he guides me to the bar. Wendy has moved farther down the bar, setting her sights on another married member of the club. It’s funny to me that in high school I had wanted to stab her viciously when she set her sights on Jesse, but when she actually sleeps with my husband I could care less.
“My parents are waiting in the dining hall. You’re ten minutes late,” says Gentry, again squeezing my arm to emphasize his displeasure with me. I sigh, pasting the fake smile on my face that I know he expects. “There was traffic,” I say simply, and I let him lead me to the dining hall where the second worst thing about Gentry is waiting for us.
Gentry’s mother, Lucinda, considers herself southern royalty. Her parents owned the largest plantation in South Carolina and spoiled their only daughter with everything that her heart desired. This of course made her perhaps the most self-obsessed woman I had ever met, and that was putting it lightly. Gentry’s father, Conrad, stands as we approach, dressed up in the suit and tie that he wears everywhere regardless of the occasion. Like his son, Gentry’s father was a handsome man. Although his hair was slightly greying at the temples, his face remained impressively unlined, perhaps due to the same miracle worker that made his wife look forever thirty-five.
“Darling, you look wonderful as always,” he tells me, brushing a kiss against my cheek and making we want to douse myself in boiling water. Conrad had no qualms about propositioning his son’s wife. I couldn’t remember an interaction I’d had with him that hadn’t ended with him asking me to sneak away to the nearest dark corner with him. I purposely choose to sit on the other side of Gentry, next to his mother, although that option isn’t much better. She looks me over, pursing her lips when she gets to my hair. According to her, a proper southern lady keeps her hair pulled back. But I’ve never been a proper lady, and the guys always loved my hair. Keeping it down is my silent tribute to them and the person I used to be since everything else about me is almost unrecognizable.
Lucinda is a beautiful woman. She’s always impeccably dressed, and her mahogany hair is always impeccably coiffed. She’s also as shallow as a teacup. She begins to chatter, telling me all about the town gossip; who’s sleeping with who, who just got fake boobs, whose husband just filed for bankruptcy. It all passes in one ear and out the other until I hear her say something that sounds unmistakably like “Sounds of Us.”
I look up at her, catching her off guard with my sudden interest. “Sorry, could you repeat that?” I ask. Her eyes are gleaming with excitement as she clasps her hands delicately in front of herself. She waits to speak until the waiter has refilled her glass with water. She slowly takes a sip, drawing out the wait now that she actually has my attention.
“I was talking about the Sounds of Us concert next week. They are performing two shows. Everyone’s going crazy over the fact that the boys will be coming home for the first time since they made it big. It’s been what...four years?” she says.
“Five,” I correct her automatically, before cursing myself when she smirks at me.
“So, you aren’t immune to the boys’ charms either...” she says with a grin.
“What was that, Mother?” asks Gentry, his interest of course rising at the mention of anything to do with me and other men.
“I was just telling Ariana about the concert coming to town,” she says. I hold my breath waiting to hear if she will mention the name. Gentry’s so clueless about anything that doesn’t involve him that he probably hasn’t heard yet that they’re coming to town.
“Ariana doesn’t like concerts,” he says automatically. It’s his go-to excuse for making sure I never attend any social functions that don’t involve him. Ariana doesn’t like sushi. Ariana doesn’t like movies. The list of times he’s said such a thing go on and on. I feel a slight pang in my chest. Ariana. Gentry and his family insist on calling me by my full name, and I miss the days where I had relationships that were free and easy enough to use my nickname of Ari.
“Of course she doesn’t, dear,” says Lucinda, patting my